


The Rules We Made Up

by Airplanesandcookies (Mosgirllee)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bullying, College drinking, I don't really write angst, M/M, Minor Injuries, OC jerks but only because they struggle with fear of failure, Slow Burn, because this is just a really happy story, bitty plays football, but really mild bullying, canon typical language, frank discussion of dangers inherent in playing football, so this is probably going to be fluffy and sweet, you may get cavities
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-19 11:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9438692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mosgirllee/pseuds/Airplanesandcookies
Summary: Eric plays football.  Jack plays hockey.  They still somehow manage.





	1. History 376

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been stewing for months and so I'm going to finally start posting. 
> 
> I'm still learning how to put together a story this long, but sometimes you just gotta jump in with both feet.
> 
> The plan is to update at least weekly on Mondays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, Check, Please and characters belong to Ngozi. She's incredible.

“How is this even possible?” Shitty yelled from the rooftop Reading Room. “I just want to have one last class with my best bro.” 

Summer was coming to an end, the warm air transitioning to ruby and saffron colored leaves of autumn and the start of classes at Samwell.

Jack, Shitty and Lardo climbed out onto the roof with a large box of wine, their laptops and course list. As the afternoon wore on, with a slight buzz, all three were more or less watching the houses along the street come back to life as students returned and began preparing for the upcoming school year.

Shitty combed through the entire course guide, cross referencing political science, women studies and history courses, looking for something that would work for both Jack and him. 

Lardo found the class though. She barely looked up from her laptop. “Would History 376 work? It’s Women, Food and American Culture.” And it should have worked, Jack thought.

Except.

“Why is everything scheduled for 8am Tuesdays?” Shitty groaned, pulling his hair back tight.

To be honest, Jack felt slightly relieved.

Lardo passed him a beer and sat back on her elbows. “Maybe next semester. But you said it yourself, you need to take that P.S. course and nothing else works around your hockey schedule. 

“It would if that one professor wasn’t such a unrelenting dick to student athletes.” 

Lardo raised her eyebrow and shrugged. “But he is, and you need to graduate. So, Jack? You interested in this class?”

The class description described it as an hands-on and practical view into the home and work lives of Americans in New England through their relationship with food from the first British colonies through the end of the 20th century and so yes, Jack was interested. 

And maybe, even though he could somehow manage to burn water, this would be a chance to learn a few kitchen tricks so that he could feed himself next year. Next year still felt so far away. 

Jack pulled up the class on his laptop and enrolled. 

“Promise me that you will text me anything you think is interesting from the class. I wanna feel like I am sitting right there with you. You can read me your notes at night.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but nodded anyway. 

Shitty laid face down near Lardo’s thigh and moaned about how fast time was slipping away from him. She reached over and gently scratched his head, silencing his complaints. 

This was Jack’s last year at Samwell. His last year before he re-emerged from his banishment as a top NHL pick and he could move on with his life, a little late but at least back on course. This year, he needed to keep is cool, keep it easy. He needed to somehow relax so that he didn’t accidentally recreate the same situation which lead to this detour when he was 18. 

He could do it. It would be fine. This was just fall semester. This was just a class about food.

_/\\_

Jack knew that he was not the most observant man of things outside of hockey. He couldn't always remember the faces of his professors or names of classmates, but he sure as hell recognized the sophomore football player currently trying to bribe his way into his senior women studies seminar with what looked like some sort of fancy pastry thing. The top crust of which looked like it belonged on the Food Network.

And, really, it shouldn’t be this funny. Jack was trying his best not to be amused but was failing stupendously because of course he would bribe his way into a class with a pie. 

Jack never thought that he would actually text Shitty from class, but this, he thought, is worth it.

 APPLE PIE JUST WALKED INTO CLASS.

Shitty merely replied with a series of question marks, but before Jack could elaborate, a string of exclamation points went across his phone’s screen right before it rang in his hands.

“It’s a graduating senior miracle!” Shitty whispered from the other end of the line.

“Why are you calling me? Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

“Bro, you text like three words, but mean three hundred. No, this is your fucking senior fantasy come true and I need to hear the Zimmermann subtext.”

Jack moved the phone to his other ear and looked at the front of the class. “Look, he just walked in with a pie and I think he just bribed his way into the class.” Jack was really trying his absolute best not to sound so amused and was failing completely. 

“Tell him that I dream about fucking pie now. I have been ruined for all other pie. That my life’s pursuit will be to find another pie that is only half as good as the one that he gifted us. All is forgiven and that I would pay an insane amount of money for another one. You tell him that for me.”

Jack could only snort before Shitty continued. 

“Okay, Jack, look around you. I know that you are a front row, corner seat type of student. Do you have any spots next to you open? If yes, move your glorious hockey butt over one so that he can see that you are offering him a seat. Next to you.”

“He won’t want to sit next to me.”

Shitty laughed, “Yes he does. But hurry up. You know how once you find your seat in a small class like that, it just becomes your seat. He could be sitting next to you for the rest of the semester. Look, my class is starting, I want deets after class.” and with that Shitty hung up.

Jack moved a seat over and when he looked, up, he made eye contact with the startled looking sophomore, who actually was scanning the room for open seats. Timing was on Jack’s side - the class had filled up while he was literally sweet talking the teacher. There weren’t many spots left for him to take. Damn Shitty, always being right.

Jack glanced at the desk next to him and tried his best to look a little less intense and robotic. but he could feel his nervousness tightening his joints. He felt like the tin man, rattling and stiff. He tried to smile, and maybe it even looked friendly-ish, but who even knew what the hell his face was doing at the moment. But AP still looked hesitant and so Jack upped his game. “Here’s a seat, Bittle.”

That moment, Eric resolved himself. His pushed his shoulders back and he smiled ruefully to himself before taking a deep breath and started walking towards Jack.

And, oh, Bittle was still embarrassed.

Charmed, Jack felt himself relaxing and smiling. Jack could make this easier for the guy. He could, if he were a nicer man. But at the moment, he’s not. This is too much fun and Jack never allows himself to have fun. So, he pated the seat next to him in emphasis.

Once Eric has sat down, he mumbled a very quiet “good morning” and made a huge show of opening his bag and pulling out a notebook, centering it in front of him, pulling out a pen and laying it perpendicular to the book, then finally laying his phone down at the top of all that while saying not a word to Jack. 

And that was unacceptable. Jack usually isn't the first to speak in any situation, but he's willing to make an exception because he can't let this go.

  
“Bittle?”  


“You know my name.” he said, in that familiar quiet southern lilt and Jack smiled, sitting back into his seat. 

“Yes. You and your pie were a popular topic at the Haus. Justin, you may know him, one of the hockey team’s d-men, wouldn’t rest until he figured out your name, team, and position.” 

“Justin Oluransi? I knew I shouldn’t have accepted that friend request.” Eric replied, still staring down and fiddling with his notebook. It was a silly thing to notice, but he had very large hands - especially compared to the rest of him and Eric Bittle was not a big man. He was on the shorter side of average with a lean build and long limbs. 

How he played as wide receiver in football, Jack could not understand. A strong wind should have been able to knock him down, let alone a huge defensive tackle. 

Jack hummed and twirled his pen around his fingers, a repetitive motion that he practiced whenever he wanted to keep grounded in the moment. He turned and looked at Bittle, who was trying his best not to look up. Jack only had to wait a few more seconds before he broke.

“Did “what’s his name,” Crappy? Ever get his door fixed?”

“No. But our team manager, Lardo, framed it.” Jack pulled out his phone and slowly scrolled through the pictures. The professor took that moment to start the lecture by passing out the syllabus and introducing herself. Jack continued to scroll until he found what he was looking for, and slide his phone to the left. Eric, who had started to write down some of the key deadlines from the board into his notebook, looked down and saw a picture of the hole with a frame around it, labeled, “HOLE, Drunk Football Dude, 2014, mixed media, woodwork”.

Eric suddenly laughed loudly, which got him a stern look from professor Atley in the room. He turned quickly pink and looked back down at his notebook.  
“You are going to get me into trouble, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack laughed, a small huff under his breathe. “Me? I didn’t bribe my way into class with a pie. Isn’t bribery illegal?”

"No court would ever convict me."

"Because clearly, you would buy them off with more pie.” And Bittle shrugged. His blush obscuring the light freckles on his nose. 

And Jack had to doodle in the margins on his notebook to keep looking over at him too often.

Jack was suddenly extremely glad that he signed up for this class.


	2. Stair Sprints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bits has a lot on his mind...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay...so, I have a wonderful beta, my bestie, blkkiwi, but I messed up and didn't get this to her until about an hour before posting here. 
> 
> I had a choice between editing for grammar (tenses are my weakness) or meeting my self imposed deadline. So, I guess college habits kicked in, because I'm just posting this up now because the deadline was most important. 
> 
> Oh well...I'll try again next week.
> 
> Also! OMG THANK YOU FOR ALL OF THE WONDERFUL COMMENTS! THEY MAKE MY DAY LIKE YOU CANNOT BELIEVE.

Football practice felt shorter than usual today. It usually did on non-contact conditioning days. But today, Eric Bittle was specifically preoccupied as he turned around at the base of the stadium stairs and sprinted back up with the rest of the offensive line behind him.

Of course Jack Laurent Zimmermann would be in his class. Because it was really too much to ask that Eric go the rest of his collegiate life without running into the very attractive witness of his greatest humiliation. Would embarrassment never cease? 

Apparently not. 

What Eric needed was a do-over.

When he walked into that seminar, he should have locked eyes with Jack Zimmermann, sauntered up to him and said, “Did you like my pie?”

Nope, scratch that, no. Way too suggestive. 

Okay, what he should have done was just turn around and made a run for it.

Nope. Not that either, because when faced with the choice, he could deal with a little discomfort if it meant that he got to see Mr. Hockey doodle plays in the margin of his notebook. Oh! And about that.

Eric had it on good authority that Jack Zimmermann did not smile. Specifically, the Swallow’s 2015 Most Beautiful People Edition stated that Jack Zimmermann was dedicated, focused, he worked harder than God and therefore did not waste time smiling at somewhat below average height men who bribe, entice, their professors with baked goods. (Bribery is such an ugly term). 

There was even an entire half page spread dedicated to people recounting if they had ever seen Jack smile in class, at a student mixer, to himself in the dining hall…and it had been given the status of extraordinarily rare - the exact rating’s wording was “the flowering Atacama dessert” rare (and just as beautiful).

Once, a little while ago, Bitty’s aunt Judy had caught her daughter making eyes at Joseph Boynton after the high school homecoming game and pulled her aside. Eric overheard her say, “Dana, you gotta be careful of the boys with smiles like that.” and Bitty had thought to himself, “well, that doesn’t really apply to me,” but Eric can now concede that Aunt Judy was dishing out very some sound and practical advice. 

Jack Zimmermann was quiet and intense. All through the class, he managed to somehow give all of his attention to the professor’s lecture, managing to take notes (in french, seriously, this boy) and still scribble little hockey sticks in the margins whenever the professor would take a few moments to change a slide or transition to another talking point. 

Jack, the dork, looked like a sad-eyed puppy with eyes designed by God just to torment anyone close enough to see those ridiculous eyelashes.

Ugh, Jack Zimmermann who…

“Is that Jack Zimmermann sitting in the stands?” Jay Dean huffed as they finished the last leg of sprints and Bitty whipped his head around to find Man of the Hour, Jack, sitting next to a girl Eric had never seen before. Jack raised a hand and waved. Eric, for a loss of what else to do waved back. 

“Oh God, Bits, this is about that door isn't it." Jay whispered looking over his shoulder.

"No, I don't think so. I took care of it last year. Plus, he didn’t mention it in class yesterday.”

Jay’s eyes went wide, “Bits!” Jay screeched, “You have a class with Zimmermann?”

Bitty patted Jay’s shoulder, “Long story. Tell you about it a little later.”

Jay threw his hands up and rolled his eyes, “No, you won’t. You never tell me anything.”

“I call your false starts all the time.” Bitty called back over his shoulder as he bounded up the flight of stairs closest to Zimmermann. 

Jack Zimmermann, who Moo Maw would call, ‘something else’ actually stood up when Eric approached. “Hey, good practice. Those footwork drills looked like something I could incorporate into my workouts.”

“You planning on joining our football team?” Eric asked, but as soon as the words came out of his mouth, he could easily imagine Jack in jersey and cleats as a gifted quarterback. 

“No, I think I’ll stick to my skates. This is Larissa Duan, our team’s hockey manager.”

Larissa shrugged a shoulder, “Call me Lardo. I’ve been told to…” Lardo pulled out a piece of paper that was carefully rolled up in a slender pencil thick cylinder and tucked behind her ear, “plead upon your graciousness and generosity for a slice of pie that can only be described as a sliver of heaven in which angels have cried upon.” Lardo then smirked, “Apple or cherry, please.“

And Eric was not immune to flattery and his cheeks flushed.

“Lardo said that she sometimes sits here to study and I didn’t give you my number in class. I figured I would run into you and we could coordinate our schedules or something especially since both of our seasons will be in full swing around the midterm project.”

Eric could only blink for a moment. He mentally took a snap shot of this moment. Jack, hair blowing slightly in the breeze, looking crisp and fresh in a black t-shirt and jeans. Bits here, still out of breath, drenched in sweat, hair plastered to his head, and tank top clinging awkwardly to his stomach and shorts riding up. 

Jack was clearly on a whole other level. Campus royalty. Eric had assumed that Jack was only being polite when he told him that they should work on their projects together. Canadian politeness versus southern hospitality. That sort of thing. He never expected Jack to follow through, let alone, seek him out and wait out a practice. Only explanation? Eric was in the Twilight Zone

“Uh, I don’t have my phone on me right now, but if you give me your phone, I can put in my digits.”

Eric felt himself internally screaming, DIGITS? Who in the world was he now?

Jack dutifully handed over a giant galaxy phone and Bitty somehow managed to input the correct 10 numbers, bonus points for them being in the right order. He also sent himself a quick text message while he was at it.

Jack, who by all inaccurate accounts was a man who did not smile, smiled at Eric and put his phone into his side pocket. “I know you got a game Saturday afternoon, but can I check in with you Sunday? Maybe you could come to the Haus, check out our kitchen, this time in the daylight.” 

“Are you teasing me?”

“Maybe a little. See you later.” And Jack and Lardo waved and walked up the stadium stairs to the exit. 

“Sixteen Bit! Why are you going to the Hockey House?” And Bitty turned around to find Cody Hubbard, Jay Dean, and Mason Fowler all standing behind him, arms folded like a trio of bodyguards that really disapproved of your choices in life. 

“I’m in a class where I need a stove. The Hockey House has one.”

“We’re banned from the hockey house.” Mason said. He was the tallest of the three, dark brown skin refracting light from the setting sun behind him. “Remember.”

“He said that he took care of it last year. How did you take care of it Bits?” Jay asked, smile wide and innocent. Eric wasn’t buying it for a minute.

“I took over a couple of pies and an apology note.” 

“Pies and a note?” Jay’s smile faltered, a deep crease between his eyes. 

“I’m from Georgia. Property damage gets a note and baked good. It’s just good manners.”

Cody nodded, brown hair slick with sweat, he swept it back from his face. “It’s true.” And Bits loved his little Alabama heart. 

“Alright, let’s hit the showers. Tomorrow is full contact practice.” Mason looked pointedly at Cody. “Full pads.”

Cody deflated, “It was once. I mixed up the days once.” 

Jay whined as he turned to go, “But where did Bits get magical apology pie?”

Both ran down the stairs towards the stadium locker room. 

Mason slapped Eric on the back, almost knocking him forward. “The game against Boston this week, coach wants you to run as Return Specialist.”   
 Bitty nodded, the thought tying up his stomach into a tighter knot. “Yea. We talked about it.”

The great thing about Mason was that he knew when to push and when to back off. “So, you know you can tell the crew that you bake, right. You can tell them anything.” Mason wiggled his ridiculous eyebrows. “It doesn’t have to be this cloak and dagger secret.”

Bits started down the steps, Mason quiet behind him. “But you are always welcome to use my apartment. Tevin doesn’t mind. He loves it when you come over.”   
Bitty shook his head. “No, I always feel like such a third wheel, I’m in your way.”

“No. You aren’t in the way. And you need a place where you can be yourself. I would never out your deepest secret.” Mason looked over both shoulders and leaned in close and whispered, “That you are a rabid hockey fan.”

Eric laughed. “I know, I know. But it just never felt right.” 

“Whenever you are ready, man.” 

Bitty lingered in the showers and then in the locker room, as the rest of the team filtered around and out, before finally getting his shit together and checking his cell phone. He had one missed call: his mom, 5 twitter notifications, and 3 new text messages - one thread being of more importance than the others. 

:This is Jack “I can’t cook” Zimmermann.: 

Which Bitty had expected, since he wrote it and all.

But it was followed with :I can cook. I’ll show you on Sunday. See you then? :

And all Bits could thinks to respond with was, :Show me what you got, Zimmermann.:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eric's football nickname is 16 Bits. When he was a freshman, it was 8 Bits. 
> 
> Next time on The Rules We Made Up, Samwell Vs Boston Football.


	3. Have My People Call Your People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this chapter looks extra shiny and readable, it's because a special thanks goes out to my friend and beta, Blkkiwi!

“What the fuck is this?” Dex held up a small black chunk between his fingers. 

Lardo, looked over from the kitchen table, “It’s charcoal now, but I bet it was either a chicken nugget or maybe a pizza roll. 

Dex threw the burned remains into the trash can with force, “Jesus, when was the last time you guys cleaned out this oven. It’s disgusting. If the self cleaning feature did work, I would be afraid the whole oven would go up in flames from the grease.”

Jack peeked in from the living room, telephone sandwiched between his shoulder and head, and a spiral notebook in front of him. He covered the mouthpiece for a moment and asked, “Do you think you can have the oven fixed by this weekend?”

“Yeah, yeah…I just need to clean it out first, check the heating elements. It’s on it’s last legs, but it should at least get to the end of the year if we are lucky.”

Jack nodded and went back to his phone call, “No, dad, I have a meeting with the Bruins. And the Aces called. But I need to make time to call them back."

"I know that you will continue to be as deliberative and as thoughtful as always." His father said, "Oh, by the way, your mother asked if any of your friends want her season football tickets this year. If not, we'll donate them to the local..."

"I'm interested in a few tickets."

Bob was silent. 

"I mean, I can't go to all of the games, but right now, our Saturdays are free until our season picks up." Jack moved the phone to his other ear. "Dad?"

"Yes! Absolutely, we'll overnight them. I was just surprised. You never seemed interested in the football team before. 

"Oh, well, one of my classmates is on the team. Eric Bittle? Anyway, he's a sophomore in my history seminar. He bribed his way in with a pie. I checked out one of his practices, and he's small, but he may be one of the fastest players I've ever seen. If he was 50 pounds heavier, I think he could have been a 4 star recruit for a much larger school. I'm interested in seeing how he plays in a full out game."

Bob was silent. 

"Dad?" 

"Yes. Let's see, it's Thursday, but I can get these out in the post today. You'll have them by Saturday.

"Thanks. I'll call you after the meeting with the Bruins."   
After Jack disconnected, he walked back into the kitchen and surveyed the contents in the cabinets. There wasn't much. Mostly hot sauce, beer that hadn't moved to the fridge and a large assortment of mostly empty boxes of cereal. How did they live like this? 

Jack flipped back through his notebook. It looked like after his phone meeting with the Bruins, he could run to the grocery store to pick up something a little more substantial that stale cereal and beer.   
 He pulled back out his phone and opened the text thread with Bittle. 

:Show me what you got, Zimmermann.: looked back at him. 

It had been a couple of days, so, maybe Jack should text and see what time Bittle wanted to come over to the Haus on Sunday, or if he even wanted to come over. Maybe they would meet somewhere else? Which, ok, that could be good because then Jack wouldn’t have to explain why Shitty was naked. But, he did make it sound like he was going to make dinner. Oh, and if he was going to make dinner, maybe he should check to see if Bittle had any preferences or allergies. Maybe he was vegan? Or allergic to shellfish. He definitely should check to be sure. Oh, now that he thought about it, maybe he could pick up ingredients for the mid-term project. But if they did try a sample recipe - that could possible take hours to bake, especially since most cooking techniques from 1700s were roasted low and slow. 

Jack added a cast iron skillet to his shopping list before staring at his phone some more. These were important questions that needed to be addressed before Sunday. He typed up a message.

:Hey Bittle, it’s me, Jack Zimmermann.: 

Jack deleted a bit. :Hey, it’s Jack.: 

Okay, much better. 

:Looking forward to Sunday.:

Wait, delete that, this was an assignment, better keep it straightforward. 

:Are we still on for Sunday? What time?: Okay, that was good.

:Also, running to the store for groceries. Is there anything we need for the assignment/snacks/dinner?:

That was okay, right? He would mention if he was deathly allergic to shellfish or didn’t eat meat. 

Jack groaned, he was being weird again. He willed himself to stop being weird. This was just a text. He could just send it and put his phone down until Bittle responded, no big deal. 

But…  
Did it sound like an group project or like, they were “hanging out?”. Snacks or dinner made it sound like he could be there for a few hours. Should Jack suggest he bring his other books while they worked on the assignment? 

Jack thought about asking Shitty or Lardo. They both were way better at this. 

“What the hell is going on in here?” Shitty yelled just as Jack was about to save the text into his drafts. Jack startled and hit send..

“Shit.”

“Yeah?” Shitty asked.

“I sent a text before I was done with it.”

Lardo looked up from her textbook, “He’s texting that football player - Bittle?”

“How did you know?” Jack asked, He was pretty sure he hadn’t said anything out loud.

Lardo lifted both eyebrows in surprise,“You are not serious.”

Jack waited for her to elaborate, but his phone rang in hand first.

“Jack!” Bittle exclaimed. Jack could hear the wind blowing outside and Bittle breathing harder than normal. 

“I didn’t mean to bother you if you were busy.”

“Oh, no bother, just out for a run.” And Jack tried to imagine him stopping mid-workout just to answer a text but he could only imagine him post football practice in the stadium stairwell. “And yes sir, we are absolutely still on for Sunday. But if you are going to the store, I thought it would be faster to call than to text, especially since the grocery list could get long.”

Jack laughed. “We have a few ingredients here.”

“Oh honey. You live in a frat house that’s inhabited by large student athletes. At the most, the only thing in your cupboard are condiments and alcohol.”

“That’s fairly accurate.” Jack said, looking around the kitchen. 

“How about this, we can go to the store together? I can borrow a car.”

“I have a car. I mean, my dad loaned me his car for the semester since I have some meetings and junk.” Jack didn’t understand why this made him uncomfortable to bring up both the negotiations and the car- it was only the Audi. 

“Perfect! I’ll meet you at the Hockey House. Oh! Do you have pots? Cake or pie pans?”

Jack walked to the cabinets and peeked in, “umm…”

“Nope, don’t worry about it. I can bring a few of mine.”

Bittle had a short post game training early on Sundays.

“Okay.”

“Okay, so I will see you Sunday afternoon, say about 3pm?” Jack confirmed. And just like that, as Bittle hung up, Jack remembered that he was standing in a room with three other people, Dex the only one pointedly ignoring him. 

‘Oh fuck. You like him!” Shitty exhaled, eyes wide. “Like, for reals, not just for pie procurement purposes.”

Jack could feel his cheeks go hot, “No. This is just an assignment. I want to pull my weight.”

Shitty started to push, but Lardo shook her head at him and he stopped talking. 

Jack backed out of the kitchen and headed up to his room. Wicks’ door was closed, but Jack could hear the heavy percussive base through the walls. 

Truth was, Jack didn’t know how to define how he felt about Bittle. He was interesting. He never did what Jack expected. In fact, he usually did something that Jack could never even imagine. As far as first impressions went, Bittle won, hands down and Jack was, in a word, charmed. Plus, Jack wasn’t blind. Bittle was objectively attractive, all compact limbs, big brown eyes, floppy hair, and that little swoop of his nose that just added something interesting to look at. Jack wasn’t a complete hockey robot after all. 

Did that mean that he was more like an android? He should write that down. That was funny. It was always good to have a few ice breaking jokes in case Jack got too intense and it all goes to shit even though he was willing himself not to be weird. 

Bittle was clearly a nice guy with no expectations or aspirations on him. And even though that was just a given par for the course, Jack found that oddly missing in his life right now. And perhaps he was putting too much on this, but he wanted this friendship or whatever it was. 

Maybe if he could relax, he could just let himself have it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Johnson did not give dibs to Wicks. Wicks got it through the player raffle. Johnson only shrugged and said, AUs are weird.


	4. 32 Bit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samwell vs. Boston.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, wow...
> 
> Thank you again for all of the wonderful comments! I read them all and they encourage me like nothing else. Thank you!
> 
> This chapter is a mess, but damnit, I promised updates on Monday and I am going to stick to it. 
> 
> Plus, I just found out how hard it is to describe football plays in prose. Especially since my experience in watching football means I know almost none of the proper terms and I mostly just point. So...there's that.
> 
> Anyway - just skim...and don't worry about my horrible job I did mixing tenses, ok? Thanks and love you. 
> 
> Oh, and hopefully I can get another chapter up tomorrow in honor of Nursey's b-day.

Even with Samwell being a relatively small school, Madison’s Friday Night Lights can not compete with the college experience. 

Eric knows that he’s lucky to be here. Early afternoon home game, the noise of the crowd getting louder as the team rushes down the tunnel towards a sea of crimson and white. The marching band belts out the school’s fight song into the stadium. 

Eric is living the dream. 

And he was fucking terrified.

But, that kinda worked for him. 

Fear made you hyper alert. Fear made you run harder, faster, and farther. And that was the his entire purpose on the team. Catch the ball and run harder, faster and farther than those who were chasing or trying to intercept him. To be smarter, find holes in the defense, anticipate paths, and most of all get some yards for the team. 

And that was something that Eric was very good at when he had the opportunity. 

But opportunity was hard to come by. 

Its hard not to be self critical, standing on the sidelines, watching Mason and Jay with the starting offense line up on the field. It’s only when he’s standing with the rest of the team, geared up that his anxiety has a chance to point out every perceived deficiency that Eric has. He’s too short without enough mass to to really challenge a defender. He’s risk adverse. He’s more likely to run offside than to go head to head.

“Just because you are a bit on the lean side doesn’t mean you can’t be a playmaker, Junior.” Coach had said a few months back, during the drive up to campus for the start of football training camp. “And you know that, you wouldn’t have gotten a scholarship if you didn’t.”

Eric had stared at the road ahead, unsure of what to say in response to his father’s rare verbal praise. Bittle men did not talk about their feelings, at least to each other. But without Suzanne to do the emotional hard work of translating, they were stuck trying to muddle through this conversation without her. 

“I'm going to get crushed.“

Coach looked over at his son. “Well, they are trending bigger every year. Size and strength will only get you so far. You are fast, good hands, and a sharp strategizing mind. You should have been tapped to be quarterback.”

Eric laughed, “You are a bit biased.” 

 “Probably. But you have the brains for it. You're like me, you see the whole field like a chess board.”

“A chess board with giant 300lb moving pieces.”

Coaches mustache twitched, smirk in his voice. “It's the only way the game is worth playing.”

They sat in silence as they drove through North Carolina and into Virginia. “I’m glad that you are going to Samwell, Junior. This looks like a good place for you. Maybe have a chance to grow, make some friends, maybe meet a nice boy.” His wiggled his eyebrows.

“Sir, I will throw myself from this car, if I have to.” 

“We never talk about it. I just want you to know that your mother and I are…”Coach frowned, eyebrows knitted together as he searched for the word. He released a deep breathe. “Look, I know that Madison wasn’t the easiest place for you. All I want for you to be in comfortable in your skin and happy.”

“And play some damn good ball.”

Coach’s eyes lit up, “Yes! Be happy and play damn good ball.”

“What happens after all that?”

Coach tilted his head and didn't answer for a long time. They had almost reached the boarder of Virginia before he mumbled, “Maybe you will tell me.”

Eric blinked and came back to the present. Boston was running a heavy defense game. Jay was being constantly pushed back and after the rough first quarter, Samwell was not putting up the yardage needed. Luckily, neither was Boston though.

During Samwell’s defense, Mason walked over, slapping Eric’s helmet. “What are we missing, 16 Bit?”

“I’m going in, aren’t I?”

Mason nodded, “Oh yea.”

No sooner were the words out of Mason’s mouth before Coach Atley called Eric and his blocking wedge over. Samwell needed a much better position on the field if they were going to even try to break Boston’s wall. 

Time always acted funny once Eric pulled on his helmet. Lining up on the field happens almost imperceivably fast, yet the 5 seconds it takes for the punt to come sailing towards him takes forever. 

Eric can see the opposition begin to push off of the ground towards him, he focuses upward and the ball still seems so far away. It’s not going to make it all the way to the end zone, Eric can already see that, so no matter what he’s going to have to run it. And why is Boston’s suicide squad so huge? The ball is closer, but still far away, and Eric wonders if he should have made an extra pie or muffins, just in case he gets a concussion or hurt, then he won’t have to worry too much about eating tomorrow. He probably should have called his mother before the game too. And shit, he has to be fine because he's meeting Jack at the Haus tomorrow. He can now see the laces on the ball and its time. No more distractions. He has one job to do. And he does it.

The ball falls into the cradle on his arms and he’s off. The Wedge makes a hole and Eric takes his chance, running through. He spins around one tackle and just pushes off as fast as he can. He doesn’t stop until he’s panting and almost ready to collide into the field goal post. 

And oh shit.

Jay slams into Eric first as he finally drops the ball and looks over the field at what he accomplished. 

Eric just ran 73 yards for Samwell’s first touch down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU Facts: Johnson here. Hey, is my name still Johnson in an AU? What distinguishes me from canon? Is there a difference? If my sole purpose in canon is to break the fourth wall and act as a minor deus ex machina, then is my only role here to list out the author’s head canons for her dear readers? I mean, that’s cool and all, but do I have to? Fine. 
> 
> 1) Professor Atley from the W.S. course is married to a football coach.  
> 2) Eric is still number 15 on the football team. Wide Receivers in the NFL wear 10-19 and 80-89. College rules are different, but the author doesn’t care right now.  
> 3) Coach does know that Eric is gay. In this AU, (Seriously, AUs are weird) Bitty needed some sort of outlet, and since he didn’t have hockey or ice skating, but instead still stayed with football, he came out around the time they moved to Madison. Coach and Suzanne were loving and accepting (as all parents should) and dear Lord, heaven help the person that says anything about Suzanne’s baby.  
> 4) The author promises to eventually get to the flashback scene she posted on Tumblr. But the story sort of shifted and she had to edit it. She’s not sorry.  
> 5) She does apologize though for her lack of football expertise. The author likes the game, but realizes that liking the game to being able to accurately describe it realistically are completely different ballparks. She apologizes and is open to helpful criticism.


	5. Groceries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whole Foods shopping trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay! Real life made it hard to write this weekend. 
> 
> I am still going to try to stick to the Monday update schedule.

Jack was absolutely mortified. 

He glanced over to the passenger seat of the car at Bittle, who was sitting quietly, eyes still wide and a little uncertain. 

They both spoke at once.

“Thanks for driving. This is the nicest car I’ve ever been in.”

“I need to apologize for my housemates. They can be a little intense.”

Bittle laughed, still a little uncomfortable, but sincere.

“The entire defensive line at Boston’s game was less intense than those three. But your housemates, they were nice.” 

“Even so.” Jack huffed.

Intense was too polite of a word. They were monsters and Jack was going to have to talk to them, loudly, after they finished working on their assignment tonight, if they even worked on the project. After that introduction, Jack would understand if Eric just jumped out of the car with nothing more than a “I understand why everyone hates the hockey team!”

There was no excuse for what had just transpired. 

Jack had expected that Shitty would be practically naked. Shitty had a 4.0 in a dual major but he couldn’t figure out how to put one leg at a time into pants or pull a shirt on. And he was always loud. 

But throwing Ransom and Holster into the mix. That had been a major mistake that Jack was going to make them pay for during practice on Monday. He was going to make their legs fall off in exhaustion. 

“YOU BEAUTIFUL MOTHERFUCKER YOU!” Shitty had yelled from the Haus’s reading room as Bittle walked up the sidewalk to meet up with Jack that Sunday. 

Eric immediately took a step back away from the Haus and from Shitty’s literal naked enthusiasm. Jack could empathize. 

“Brah, I don’t think I have ever seen anything as sexy as your touchdown yesterday. Oh! It was glorious! You caught that ball like it was one of those super stars from Super Mario. Then you ran like you were fucking invincible. The other guys couldn’t even touch you.”

Eric blushed and looked directly at Jack who was walking quickly out the front door . “You were at the game?”

“Oh yeah! Jack had his parents tickets and so we got to like sit at the 50 yard line with all the other fancy alumni.” 

Jack felt his face heat up a few degrees, and he took that as a sign that maybe he should just throw Bittle into the car and make a run for it before Shitty could make it any worse. 

“Oh my god! You are a meme!” Holster yelled from the roof. He held up a laptop that absolutely no one could see from the ground. 

Where there was Holster, there was Ransom, “Bro! Do not drop my laptop off of the roof.”

“I’m not that clumsy.” Holster loudly declared to Ransom before turning back to Bittle. “I hope you got your dick sucked last night. A play like that was spectacular. I know you must have had a line of admirers all ready to see the magic up close. You know what I’m saying.” 

And just like that, Holster made it worse. 

“Yea, man! Oh, send me your stats! I’m Samwell’s unofficial matchmaker. You ever need a date for Saturday night or want a hook up at the next Kegster, I can set you right up!” 

“The car’s this way.” Exasperated, Jack started walking towards his father’s black Audi parked on the street just in front of the house. He pulled the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the passenger side door manually instead of with the remote, just like he had seen his father do it his entire life. He then opened the door for Bittle before walking around the car to the driver side seat. 

Just as they were pulling out of the parking space, Shitty threw himself at the passenger side door, “Bro, bro…while you are out, may I again beg upon your mercy and request an apple pie. I will provide any monetary restitution you may need, but I’m like begging you for a slice of heaven again.”

Jack rolled up the window electronically and then pulled off, leaving Shitty sputtering in the street. “That’s real cold, man! So cold.”

Jack couldn’t help replaying the entire exchange over and over in his head on the way out of campus. He wasn’t sure who was more uncomfortable about Holster’s post game celebration idea. It would be best if he just didn’t think about that and instead focused on the directions GPS was spitting out.

He did interject, very quietly, “It was a really great play, Bittle.”

Eric smirked, “Such high praise from a man who is going pro soon. Do you go to a lot of Samwell football games?” Bittle asked.

“My parents have season tickets to both football and hockey. If they are ever in town, they usually pop in for a game of two. Most of the time though, they donate the tickets to a local high school or community organization.”

“They sound like good people. But that wasn’t an answer.” 

Jack shook his head. “No. It was on my list of things to do before I graduate. I wanted to go to a football game before the hockey season started up.”

“You have a senior year bucket list?” And just like that Bittle lit up and turned in his seat to better face Jack. “Details, please.”

Jack glanced back at Bittle and he sort of wished that he hadn’t. The sun caught all of the light blond highlights in his hair giving him a halo against the dark leather seats of the car’s interior. His arms and face tanned and freckled all the way down into the vee of his grey polo shirt. He looked like the love interest in a movie, slightly wind-swept with his toned arm braced against the car window. 

“Photography.” Jack blurted. “I want to take a photography class.”

Bittle beamed. “Oh wow! That’s fantastic. The only pictures I take are for instagram. What else is on your list?”

Jack made a mental note to figure out how to use Instagram. “Maybe take a technical creative writing course? One day, I would like to write a history book or biography.”

“Seriously?”

Jack blushed. “It’s an idea. It’s good to have a fall back plan in case hockey doesn’t work out.”

Eric blinked at him for a moment, biting his lip. “Doesn’t work out.” He stated. Not a question.

“It’s hockey. I would love to play for as long as I can. But if that’s not a possibility, I want to have a plan already laid out, something that I felt like I chose just like I chose hockey.”

“And for you, that’s history?” Bittle asked.

“Yea.” And because he didn’t think he would get chirped for it. “I just like getting lost in other people’s stories. I like seeing how the past got us to this moment.”

Jack pulled into the Whole Foods parking lot, the 20 minute ride going much faster than he had anticipated. And Bittle was out of the car like a shot, grinning and gleefully grabbing a cart and pulling up a shopping list from his phone. “Jack, it’s a real grocery store. Look! produce that not half rotten. Oh! I bet they have different types of flour!”.

They hit the produce section together, but only Bittle seemed to know what he was looking for as he picked up a couple of sugar pumpkins, a rutabaga, a celeriac, and a few other odds and ends. 

“I’m impressed that you seem to have an idea what you want to do with your life. I’m still trying to figure it out. Like, I don’t even have a major just yet and I know that I don’t want to play football forever. So, I’m impressed with folks who even just have a direction they want to start walking, you know what I mean?”

Jack shrugged. “After I missed the draft at 18 and rehab, I figured that I probably should set up some goals.”

Bittle’s silence clued Jack in that he may have overstepped from the shallow waters of casual sharing into something neck deep and muddy. Jack rarely talked about his 18th year to anyone, even Shitty or Lardo. It just slipped out. 

After a beat, when it was clear that Jack wasn’t going to continue, Bittle nodded. “Alright, what else is on your Samwell bucket list.”

They strolled through the store, grabbing an assortment of ingredients as Jack rattled on about kissing the ice at Faber, catching a documentary series hosted by the University history department, comparing the three local ice cream shops on campus, and taking coaches Hall and Murray golfing with his dad. 

“No dating? Why are you single?” Bittle asked at the checkout line before he froze and began babbling an apology, “Oh! That’s way too intrusive I’m sorry. That just tumbled out of my mouth and onto the floor. Just ignore that question.”. 

Their cart full with not only the ingredients for the assignment, but also the groceries for the Haus and a few things Eric was adamant they needed for pie construction. Jack began unloading just to have something to look at besides his feet. “Um…well, the thing is hockey takes up a lot of time, and dating hasn’t been a priority. 

“Do you have a…” Shitty’s voice was loud and persistent in his head yelling not to assume and watch the pronouns, “someone special?”

Eric shook his head, no. “Same reason as you, right? I barely have enough time to do my homework, much less date. Jeez, last night, I didn’t even go out with my teammates to celebrate. I needed to study for my calc quiz. This, right here, going to a real grocery store without having to wait for the bus, this is a treat.”

“I know that schedules will clash, but if you ever want to go with me, I’m happy to drive you. Maybe after class on Tuesdays?”

Bittle stared at him, until the cashier cleared her throat, and both of them moved in a flurry to put everything onto the conveyor belt. 

Jack pulled out his credit card to pay, but Bittle had somehow organized everything on the belt and cleverly put the divider down so that Jack only ended up paying for the Haus’s groceries. 

“Bittle, I can cover the ingredients for the class. I’m good for it.”

And he just shook his head. “No Mr. Zimmermann. First of all, you drove. Second, I can’t have you paying for our experiment. Maybe next time if you are quicker.” 

They were loading up the car to head back when Jack realized that Bittle hadn’t mentioned one thing about himself. And Jack wanted to know everything about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soap Opera music ♫♫♫...
> 
> Next time on The Rules We Made Up...
> 
> Eric returns to the Haus, they heat up the kitchen (because they turn on the oven), and we finally get to see what happened last year at the Epikegster.


	6. Stew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Eric make stew and pie. That's not an euphemism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is late. Again, real life came and delayed things a bit :-/

Despite earlier claims, Jack Zimmermann could not cook. He could barely heat up the oven. But he could follow directions and he was a quick learner. So, in other words, he was an absolute dream to have in the kitchen. 

Eric couldn’t be certain of when, but he is pretty sure that he stumbled into a rom-com date montage somewhere between Jack opening the car door for him and this moment, with Jack in the Haus kitchen, laughing, with flour in his hair. 

‘Jack Zimmermann doesn’t smile.’ Yeah right. What other bridge was the Swallow trying to sell to the unsuspecting students of Samwell?

Eric was not prepared for this and now he was going to be ruined for any future dates with other potentially wonderful men because this, this right here, was his perfect date. He couldn’t have planned it better if he had tried. A drive in picturesque New England, shopping at a beautiful and well stocked grocery store, gentle teasing in the frozen food isle, deep confessions over a large selection of produce, serious discussion about the proper pronunciation of pecan, and now this.

“So, if you have the puck, and I am a defensemen, I don’t want you anywhere near the goal especially if you are as fast on skates as your are on the field. So, I would try using your momentum against you, and I personally hate these, but I could use a hip check, which is brutal.” Jack squatted down next to Eric, quad muscles straining and defined in his jeans until he was standing at the lower height. “I would bend my knees and use my shoulder, hip, butt, to get under you a bit and knock you down.” 

Jack then demonstrated, using his hip to bump into Eric. The effect, standing in the kitchen counter motionless with shoes, was muted, but only by a little. The point was made. Eric could see how a player could go flying up and over into the boards or into the ice. And even though it was like a bump, unlike football, It would be a devastating hit in a blink of an eye just from the sheer speed of a game on ice.

“So football hits are completely different. It’s like comparing apples and oranges.” 

“Or apples and peaches?” Jack asked, small smirk giving away how pleased he was with himself at the joke. 

This sweet adorable dork. 

Eric laughed and rolled his eyes.” Apples and peaches. The goal is the same. You are trying to either block or separate the offense from the ball, right.” Eric washed his hands and dried them before turning back to Jack. “So, you know all this. There is the general blocking to keep players in place, there is the defense that is going to try to intercept you and the defense that’s going to try and chase you. So, if i was a defensemen and I see a receiver with the ball, I’m going to go after them and try to throw my body at them so that I can collide, twist to redirect momentum, and drag them down to the ground.”

Eric crouched down in front of the cabinets, facing Jack whose back was at the table. “So, I’m going to push through and try to aim my shoulder at your torso. I gotta keep my head out of the way, that’s a penalty and I like my spinal column just fine, thank you. Then I’m going to hit, grab you and then try to twist my body to take you down to the ground.”

Eric slowly demonstrated the steps, wrapping his arms around Jack’s center, and essentially hugging him before gently pushing him back into the table. Jack body threw off heat like a furnace and Eric jumped back as if he had been burned. 

“I think I smell the stew burning, let me turn down that down to a simmer.” Eric quickly went over to the stove, and gave the contents a quick stir and gave himself a moment to get his thoughts together. 

Jack finished chopping up the apples they picked up from the store. The silence filled the room with a honey warm tension that had Eric’s hair standing up on his arms. Eric just had to wait. Jack didn’t just talk to talk. Eric could do that for both of them anyway. But even though they had only spent a little bit of time together, Eric could see that Jack needed a beat of two to collect his thoughts before he spoke. 

“Do you ever worry about getting hit?” Jack asked. “What goes through your head during the game?”

It was a loaded question. “I worry all the time about getting hit. My dad’s a coach. I started playing when I was knee high to him, and I loved it. Then when our pee-wee team went from flag to tackle, it was not an easy transition. We would rotate the quarterback position, just so everyone could get some play time. So, this one time, I was throwing during that game and one of the boys, Joseph Boynton, came at me like a bullet, head down on my blind-side.” Bitty took a breathe. He could still feel how the hit rattled his bones and feel the impact of the ground as he fell. 

“That was a concussion. My dad wasn’t coaching us at the time and he was livid. The other coach just tried to laugh it off saying boys needed to learn how to get their aggression out on the field. Afterwards, I would get nauseous from the stress. But if it makes sense, that worked for me. I guess my fear of getting hit made me really good at dodging and a great receiver. Don’t get me wrong, I had to build up a new tolerance to hits, come to expect them and work through them. My dad helped. He took to learning safer strategies like it was his new religion. Even before everybody else. But anyway, I still don’t like them. Gosh, I even threw up before yesterday’s game.”

Jack stared back at him. And Eric had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from babbling even more. He just needed to give them both a moment. 

“Then that play was even more amazing. Your dad must have been proud.”

“Oh gosh, he was thrilled.”

Eric had been surprised with himself. His parents, though, not so much. “Junior, I knew that you were going to do big things on that team. I’m so proud. I wish I could have seen it first hand.” his father gushed over the phone as Eric left the locker room. 

“I just did what you taught me to do.”

“Ha, you give me too much credit, son. I’m going to try and get to one of your games. I think I can catch a red-eye after the high school game and come up.”   
“I’d like that, sir.”

Eric’s mother had grabbed the phone then, “Oh honey. I’m so proud. Are you going out with your teammates for dinner?”

“Yea, I think I’m going to grab something with Mason, Cody and Jay. But then, I’m going to get a head start on my homework tonight. I have to group project that may take up most of tomorrow, so I need to do it tonight.

And just like a bloodhound, she picked up that scent. “Oh, honey!” voice sugared and high pitched. “I’m so proud of you, going the extra mile for your school work.”

Eric braced himself.

“I just wonder if you have a special motivation for this renewed work effort?”

And there it was. 

“Mom, it’s the beginning of the semester, and I wanted to put my best foot forward.”

Which Suzanne was not buying. “Of course, Dicky. I just didn’t expect you to have a study date on Sunday.”

“It’s just a group project for the Women Studies class.” Bitty said, frantically looking around for anyone whom he could use as a distraction to get him off the phone.

“Well, I’m sure you will do well in the class. Who is your partner? Do we know the family.”

Eric loved his mother, he did, so he willed his eyes not to roll when he answered. “Mom, I know you know everyone south of the Mississippi, but even I doubt you know him.”

Suzanne tsked. “Do not underestimate the reach of the Rotary Club.”

Eric laughed. “Okay, his name is Jack Zimmermann.”

Suzanne paused. “Zimmermann? One N or two?”

“Two.”

She paused again, “As in the son of Bad Bob Zimmermann, three time Stanley Cup Winner?”

Eric had no idea, “Ummm…welll, Jack is the captain of the Samwell Hockey Team.”

He had to snatch the phone away from his ear as his mother shrieked. “Oh my God, DIcky! You have a date with Bad Bob’s son?”

“It’s a group project.”

Eric could hear his father in the background, “Oh Lord, here we go.”

“Dicky, what are you going to wear? Oh! Wear one of your Polo shirts! Your father looks so good in them. They show off arms and collar bones. And wear your good cologne. Not the one from Walmart your cousin Colleen got you - what was that Axe? It’s disgusting. No, the fancy bottle your grandmother gave you for Christmas.” 

By the time Eric had gotten her off the phone, she had planned his outfit (which he did not need help with, thank you very much), extracted two promises that he would call her afterwards for only God knew what reason, and started a plan to ‘bump into’ Jack Zimmermann during parents weekend. 

Okay, but now, standing in the kitchen with Jack, Eric could confess that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t completely out of line.

He might be able to admit that he's secretly glad that he put on that touch of his good cologne. And maybe he imagined it, Lord only knows how his imagination can get the best of him, but he could have sworn that Jack spared an appreciative glance at his arms. (And yes, his collarbones too.)

With the stew on the stove and a pie in the oven, Jack and Eric cleaned up. 

“The kitchen looks completely different from what it did last year.”

Jack hummed. “Yea, I grabbed a few teammates and we cleaned. As you can imagine, it can get pretty bad.”

“Speaking of which, where are your housemates?” Eric asked. From the moment they returned, they had the entire house with newly spotless kitchen to themselves. 

Jack frowned and shrugged. “I have no idea. And that can’t be good.”

They washed the last few dished in the sink before retreating into the common room with two waters and the course syllabus. 

“So, the couch really is this awful green color. I thought that it may have been a trick of the light.”

Jack flopped down on it, unperturbed by the cloud of invisible funk that bloomed out from it. “Haha. Yeah, it was here when I moved in. I’m not sure who found it originally. I’m surprised you remembered that from last year.” 

The internal warning bells went off in Eric’s head, loud and bright, and he thought for a moment whether or not he wanted to deny deny deny or if it was worth it to just confront this particular embarrassment, laugh about it, and move on. 

Jack looked over at him, from the center of the couch, arm thrown over the back, looking mischievous, but never malicious and the choice was obvious. His sense of self preservation screamed at him, but in he jumped, with both feet. 

Eric sat gingerly on the armrest. “To be fair, I did enjoy the party for at least 30 minutes before I was introduced to the tub juice. I did get a look around.”

Jack’s entire face brightened. His smirk transforming into a full smile. He raised one eyebrow, (and good grief, why were his eyebrows even perfect) before asking, “Now, how did you end up in my bed that night.”

Eric, still pushing through the thick uncomfortableness of confession, shrugged, “mistakes were made that night.” Jack’s face made this worth it though. If this gamble paid off, they would have an inside joke between them. A touchstone for their friendship and a unique story for how they met. Keep going, Dicky, he thought.

“You are going to chirp me so bad.” Eric said.

“Forever.” Jack replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me @ airplanes and cookies on Tumblr for posting updates, my head canons, rants about random things and my home life.


	7. Flashback (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just how did Eric end up in Jack's bed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so many excuses...blah blah moving...blah blah...stomach flu...blah blah kids are hard...blah blah..
> 
> Anyway, my update schedule may be a little off this month until we get settled. 
> 
> My goal is to still update weekly, but you know...blah blah happens.
> 
> Thank you so much for your kind words and comments. I wish I could respond, but I am struggling on time right now. But I love every word. Thank you for reading.

Jack had forgotten about the pie in the oven until the timer went off suddenly. He was momentarily worried that Eric would use the beeping as an opportunity to avoid his question. But Eric simply hopped up, walked into the kitchen like he owned it, and asked over his shoulder “aren’t you coming?” 

And for a moment, Jack wondered how could he be invited into his own kitchen. 

As he stood in the doorway, he figured it out pretty quickly. This was now Eric’s space. He had filled it with his presence just like the pie had filled the room with the aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg and apples. Eric grabbed the oven mitts and pulled out the pie and a dozen or so of something he had called pie scrap cookies which as far as Jack could tell were just bits of flour held together with butter. 

And wow, did they smell good. 

Eric was a flurry of movement as he began to speak, setting the pie onto pot trivet the middle of the kitchen table to cool(which until Bittle had identified it, Jack had no idea what a trivet was. He just assumed it was some sort of iron kitchen decoration.) He grabbed the milk, poured a couple of glasses and plated up the cookies while motioning for Jack to take a seat. 

“So, we weren’t planning on coming to the party, me and Jay. It just sort of happened. I’m not sure if you remember when a couple of football players, oh about five years ago, got suspended and expelled because of, how can I phrase this…inappropriate behavior?”

Jack sat down and picked up a cookie. “Yes.” Because it was big news. It was right before Jack had signed. It was also one of Shitty’s favorite topics to rant about.

Eric sat down too. “The coaches addressed the alcohol abuse, but not the issues around appropriate behavior around consent. So, as a stop-gap, we have a policy where underaged players can’t go to any party where alcohol is served because everyone is afraid of drunkedness, which I will admit can be a problem, but teaching men on how to recognize consent needs to be addressed as much if not more so.”

Which Jack completely agreed with. And so did Shitty, but with way more curse words and ‘brahs’ interjected.

“Anyway, our classes were done except for the last few finals, our season was basically over, except for a bowl game after Christmas. So we were just wandering around campus with what felt like a bunch of free time.”

And Jack got that twinge in his chest because that sounded like a date.

“Jack, I have never seen anything like it, it felt like everybody that was out and about on campus was slowly being drawn to this house. We were just following the flow and ended up on the front porch, you know?”

And Jack nodded, because of course he did. Epikegster advertising was one part word of mouth, two parts subliminal messaging, and three parts just bass reverberating throughout the town. There was no way to escape the pull. 

“So, here we were, standing outside and I will be the first to admit, I am a sucker for peer pressure. So, we started making excuses, like, “How do we even know if there is alcohol being served. It’s really cold outside, we can just go and check and then leave if it’s they are serving. Also, we don’t plan on drinking. And how can we not experience one of the major tenets of collegiate life? Boy, by the time we talked ourselves into circles, we were standing in the house, coats dumped in a corner somewhere, trying to not look like some young lost freshman. Well, when I say we, I mean me. Jay doesn’t have that problem. You saw him on the field, he’s taller than you, 200lbs and looks like Mehcad Brooks.”  


“I have no idea who that is.” Jack said, absently reaching for another one of those amazing cinnamon coated cookie thingy.

“Sexy Jimmy Olsen. We can google a picture later.”

Now that definitely made it sound like they were on a date. Jack stuffed his mouth so he wouldn’t just ask if it was a date because it was really truly none of his business. 

“Anyway, I have never been to an actual college house party.” Eric said. “I mean in Georgia, there were always opportunities where somebody would grab a case of beer and everyone would all go out to a field somewhere and drink in the bed of a pick-up or something, but I didn’t do that too much.”

Jack wasn’t expecting that. Eric seemed like one of those guys that should be constantly surrounded by people, going out on dates, and wooing poor unsuspecting souls. He was a gifted conversationalist - or at least Jack thought so. Jack knew quite a few people who liked to talk, but Eric was the type that liked to talk, but he also liked to listen with his entire being even picking up on cues and passing Jack another cookie a moment before Jack could reach for it himself. Plus the accent was adorable. 

“So, it’s very clear that this is a party that we should not be in attendance, but of course we aren’t ready to leave - the music is great, everyone is having a great time, and that’s when we ran into our first hurdle, which was that our entire upperclassmen offensive line showed up.”

“You were stuck?”

Eric took a bite out of his cookie and scrunched up his face, “This needs more cinnamon, but yes. Let me tell you, our old quarterback, Pearson, complete jerk. Oh my God, he hated me. And when he walked in with his crew, Jay and I couldn’t figure out how to get past them without being seen and he would have had me kicked off of the team just for looking at the door to this party. So, we split up and I kept low. Long story short, I tried to blend in, which meant I grabbed a large cup of that punch to help obscure my face, and accidentally got myself so rapidly drunk, that I needed to go lay down. 

“In my bed?”

Eric blushed, “well, I didn’t know it was your bed at the time.”

And this was the part that Jack remembered. 

That night, Epikegster had been in full swing. And it was too much. People were everywhere, drinks overflowing, music was blasting, hook-ups in the corners, yelling in the kitchen, bodies bumping into everything, in the yard, on the porch, on the couch, on the stairs, on the landing, everywhere. 

Jack had done his duty. As the new captain, he had quietly made his rounds, passed out a few bottled waters before making his escape upstairs to the sanctuary of his room. Where of course, he found a boy in his bed, seemingly passed out.

The frustrating part was that this was not the first time that had happened. The lock on his door stuck frequently, rendering the door practically impossible to lock and unlock. Every party or so, he found someone in his room either making out or desperately looking for the bathroom. But he had never found anyone just completely laid out in his bed, shoes off and under the covers.

Jack picked up his hockey stick from the floor and tapped it loudly against the door frame.

A now familiar blond head popped up and blinked slowly at him, huge brown eyes half lidded with sleep.

“You are in my bed.” Jack said, flatly.

The guy in his bed, pushed himself up and smiled, open and easy. “Good Lord, where did you even come from?”

Jack felt silly holding his gear gear like a weapon in the face of a very drunk and very cute underclassman.

He put down the stick and replied. “Canada”.

Blond boy laughed. “Well book me a ticket!” As he made finger gun motions and winked at Jack.

“Okay.” Jack continued, uncertain. “You are in my bed.” Jack tried again and that for some reason, something got through because the boy’s eyes got large and he quickly looked around him and completely blanched.

“I’m in your bed.”

“I just said that.”

“I’m not dreaming.”

The noise from downstairs was making it hard to hear, so Jack took a closer step to the bed, leaving the door open.

Curious, Jack asked, “Do you often dream about being in other people’s bed?” The Underclassman, Eric, went completely crimson as he bolted out of the bed and towards the door in a flurry of compact limbs.

Jacks original assessment was right. He was short, but not unreasonable so and slight in a way that could be deceptively muscular. His hair flopped a bit on his forehead.

The interloper was out the door and almost down the hall before Jack called out “Your shoes.”

“Keep them!” But he stopped just shy of the stairs and came back, muttering, “Fuck Massachusetts in winter.”

He walked back quickly into Jack’s room to look for his shoes as Jack felt the laughter start to hitch his shoulders.

“I told myself, Self, do not go to this party. And if you go to this party, don’t drink. And if you happen to drink, don’t get drunk. You know how you get when you drink. And what do I do? I have one damn cup of punch and end up shoeless in a gorgeous boy’s bed.”

“To be fair,” Jack interrupted, “Tub juice counts as 3 drinks”.

Blond with the southern accent propped himself up against the wall and pulled on his shoes. “Noted.” Once his shoes were on his feet, he peeked out of the door and immediately slammed it closed before diving under Jack’s bed, which was the last thing Jack had expected since he was pretty sure he was kicking the guy out only just 30 seconds ago. 

Someone banged loudly on Jack’s door. 

“Bittle! I know you are in there. Come out.”

Jack looked at his bed, and immediately decided to just casually adjust the sheets so that the entire bed was covered with the bedspread all the way to the floor before opening the door.

He had an urge to immediately slam it closed again just because he didn’t like the look on the guy’s face that was on the other side.

“Send Bittle out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Jack puts out an entire football team with a fire extinguisher and Epikegster ends up in the Swallow. 
> 
> Johnson: Super fun fact - Mehcad Brooks is the son of former NFL wide receiver Billy Brooks which instantly cemented him as the author's fan cast of Jay Dean…wait, is it a fan cast if it is an OC…I have questions.


	8. Flashback (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shitty recalls the football incident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! 
> 
> Real life is now settling back down to normal. Hopefully I won't have to move again for a good long time. 
> 
> And now, back to our story.

It was a good night. But every night that Shitty had an excuse to casually hang out with Lardo was a good night. And those opportunities were dwindling. 

Lardo looked at her phone in the street’s lamp light. “The dynamic duo just texted. Yo! What did the exterminator find? Do we have roaches or strangers? #TeamAttic. How much longer do we need to stay out of the Haus?”

“Hard to say.” Shitty hitched his back pack higher on his shoulder. “On one hand, I would just keep everyone out of the house until tomorrow, but then on the other hand, everyone has 6am practice.”

“True. How about I text them 15 minutes to a half an hour. That way, if we go back now, we can have first dibs on any pie that may or may not be there.”

“You are a genius, Lards. But, you don’t think it’s too soon? Maybe an hour to be safe?” 

“Nope. Jack hasn’t even realized that he’s on a date.”

“But this is serious. Lardo, he cleaned his room.”

“He always cleans his room.”

Shitty sped up and spun around in front of Lardo and began to walk backwards. “Larissa.”

“For real, full names?”

“That’s how serious I’m being. Larissa, I know Jack is the godliness-est of us all, but brah…he’s still a college guy living in a frat. And so when I tell you he pulled out the hoover and attacked the dust bunnies under the bed and washed his sheets, like that’s super serious. This isn’t an ordinary study date. Nope. His subconscious isn’t just hoping he gets laid. His subconscious is basically painting arrows on the walls with ‘This Way to Heaven’ while printing out wedding save the dates . Now - will that happen today? Undecided. But he’s putting that all of that sexual and/or romantic tension into the universe. 

“Where did this Bittle guy even come from? Does he even deserve Jack? Isn’t he the guy who put a hole in the door?”

Shitty understood Lardo’s urge to protect Jack. He had been doing it himself since the first time he laid eyes on baby faced freshmen Jack during their first hockey practice. Instead of the hot shot , first round draft pick, celebrity, and utter disaster of a human being that everyone else had imagined and expected, here came this awkward kumquat of a guy who looked like he would much rather melt through the ice than be subjected to any type of attention. Shitty had just wanted to wrap him up in his arms and hug the hell out of him. 

Shitty stopped dead in his tracks. “That’s right. You were in Rwanda…Have you not heard this entire story?”

Lardo rolled her eyes as they walked up the steps to the Haus, “No. I only get little bits and pieces here and there. I know there was a drunk football dude that put a hole in your door, something about a fire extinguisher and the entire offensive line of the football team.”  
“Oh my God. Lardo! How did I not tell you about this?”

“You were more excited about the pie.”

Shitty stuck the key in the door and walked in quietly, Lardo close behind. The smell of pie damn near brought tears to Shitty’s eyes. Oh, and it smelled even better than he could ever imagine. And Shitty knows himself spiritually, physically and mentally far better than anyone else, well except for Johnson . He knows that he can be a little enthusiastic and a bit touchy feely. And that sometimes people may not want him all up in their personal space. He respects that and tries very diligently to contain that urge to pounce and snuggle. So, he needs Lardo’s hand on his shoulder to keep him from bouncing into the kitchen to attack a pie, or Jack, or Eric or all three. 

Jack and Eric are quietly talking, with Eric grinning broadly at the sink and Jack keeps stealing glances at his turned back.

They are so fucking cute, Shitty is sure he’s going to die. 

“I was drunk!”  


“You must have been, especially to confuse a pick up versus a stick up.”

“What?”

Jack winked at Eric and made finger guns and whispered, “Pew pew pew.”

Eric’s eyes went wide. “I’m short. I can fit in this oven.”

Lardo knocked on kitchen’s door frame. “Hey, I smell pie.” and two sets of eyes quickly turned to her.

“Please, don’t mess with me. Is that an apple pie and is it available for Haus consumption?" Shitty asked, barging into the room.

Eric, blushing, dried his hands, “it’s still a little hot, but I think we can serve it up now. Keep in mind, it’s going to be a little gooey since it hasn’t fully set.”

Shitty pulled down plates and pulled out a butter knife to cut into the pie. “You aren’t dissuading me.”

“Where have you all been?” Jack asked as he checked his watch.

Lardo made eye contact from across the room and shook her head, but Shitty didn’t need the reminder. He was a good wingman, and he knew not to fess up that he and Lards basically told everyone to keep out of the Haus for 4 hours so that your best friend in the whole wide world had a chance relax enough to flirt with his new crush.

“Just at the library man. I think Holster and Ransom had a movie they wanted to see. Who even knows where Wicks is. He only shows up when you mention his name.”

The front door opened, and Wicks walked past and gave a quick wave before disappearing upstairs to his room. 

Shitty took a bite of his pie. He had spent a long time dreaming of this pie and it did not disappoint. He scooped up another bite onto his fork and held it out for Lardo. “Please, please try this and tell me that I did not up sell this pie.”

Lardo took the offered bite and squeaked before just taking Shitty’s entire plate from him, fork and all. Good grief she was perfect. 

“I’m so glad you like it!” Eric said, already dishing up another slice to give to Shitty. 

Lardo finished a particularly large bite. “So, Eric, you are responsible for the hole in the door?”

And Eric grimaced, and shifted his weight back and forth. “I had a really good excuse.”

And Lardo, in her very direct way, waved her hand for Eric to continue.

“We were just talking about this, Jack and I.”

_/\\_ 

The party was in full swing downstairs and so it was completely accidental that Shitty managed to see about three football bros squat under the police tape blocking the stairs and run up. And Shitty was absolutely done with having some drunk jackass shit or vomit in his bathroom. Not after he had cleaned it and even had the foresight to put a clean glass for water on the sink along with the bottle of ibroprophen. See. He was growing up. Practically responsible.

He jumped up off of the couch and jogged up the stairs in time to see that motherfucker, Pearson bang on Jack’s door.

“Send Bittle out.” 

Pearson braced himself on the doorframe, clearly unsteady, so when Jack threw the door open, he stumbled forward and almost headfirst into the room.

“Yo! Zimmermann!” He slurred around a huge fucking sleazy grin. “I would not have expected you to be up here with our cute little star freshman.”

Now Zimms has the best game face ever in the history of collegiate hockey. Like he straight up transforms himself that is 110% done with your shit. It’s stunning in it’s beauty. 

“The party is downstairs.” Now, Shitty knows that is Jack’s captain voice. He was surprised they didn’t just flee immediately but Pearson and his goons were too drunk to heed the warning bells though.

“Okay, I see what’s going on. Don’t worry Zimmermann. Just send Bittle out. I won’t ask any questions.”

“Who’s Bittle?”

Pearson threw his head back, and rolled it around on his neck while the two guys behind him looked slightly green. “Bittle! You know damn well who I’m talking about. He looks like the lead singer God’s most perfect boy band. Look, I saw him downstairs. I know he’s here. Send him out so we can talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the story continues. I needed to break up the chapter. Otherwise it was too long. Update schedule should return to normal now with a bonus update in a day or two for the rest of Shitty's story. 
> 
> Hockey boys kick butt. But Football boys do it literally.
> 
> See you soon!


	9. Flashback (Part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part three of the Kegster flashback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes off directly from where we left off in chapter 8. Another POV Shift.

It was clear that this Mr. Crappy aka Shitty loved to tell a story. He was in his element as he finished his last bite of pie before addressing his audience. 

“So, at this point, I’m getting ready to back up my bro and Captain, O Captain here, when the toilet flushes from our bathroom and our favorite wide receiver here comes out of my room, fresh as a daisy, while drying his hands and says ‘Oh, I didn’t realize there was a line for the bathroom.’ Which, let me just say, nice move there, Bittle!”

When Eric had dove under Jack’s bed, he hadn’t really thought the whole thing through. He was going on instinct - which demanded that he not get caught. But that ship had sailed as soon as Pearson knocked on the door and called him by name. So, it was time to step up his game. 

He hadn’t known for sure that the rooms would be connected by a bathroom, but at least that gave him a reason for being upstairs that was completely separate from what Pearson was trying to clumsily suggest. God, he was the worst. 

It took only a moment, to roll back from under the bed and slip into the bathroom and walk through with a flush and a hand rinse. 

Shitty, on a roll continued. “So, now we have three confused football players, two confused hockey players and this mo-fo who is about to casually and confidently walk down the stairs like nothing had happened at all. Like, it should have worked, right? That should have been the end of it. But no. Pearson, that piece of shit, starts up with, “Visiting hours are over, Bittle. Say goodbye to your boyfriend and your spot on the team. This is suspension worthy. And he looks so thrilled. Like, 80s movie teen villain giddy. What is his problem. anyway?

Eric shrugged, “He’s just one of your 31 flavors of bully. He hated my guts the moment the coaches tested me in for the quarterback spot even though I’m too short to play competitively at this level. But Pearson hated me like I had the ability to grow half a foot overnight, take his captaincy, and eat his only slice of pie." Pearson had then spent the whole season trying to make sure that Eric ‘knew his place’ and he was beside himself when Eric had carved out a small niche for himself on the team. 

Shitty bit his lips before continuing. “So, Pearson is glaring, Jack is glaring, the two goons are swaying. And Bittle here is standing his ground like the Karate Kid.”

“Shitty, you really need to lay off the 80s movies.” Lardo said as she eyed another slice of pie. 

“Never. Plus, that’s exactly who Pearson looked like. Billy Zabka! Thank you Holster for movie night! 

“Anyway, the scene had been pretty tense. You could cut the tension like this slice of pie here.”

Everyone in the kitchen groaned.

Pearson reached out to grab Eric around the shoulders, and Eric, just simply shifted his weight backwards and leaned just out of reach.

Pearson tried again, and Eric did the same thing.

Jack, who had been steadily watching the exchange, repeated himself, “The party is downstairs. Leave. Now.”

The two other football players began to shuffle towards the steps but fucking Pearson could not take a hint even when it is 6 feet and 1 inch standing in front of you, and he reached once more for Eric, this time grabbing him around the shoulders. “We’ll be out of your hair, won’t we Bittle.”

And Eric grabbed and lifted Pearson’s arm from around his shoulder and straight out to the side. “I’m good.”

“Careful. That is my throwing arm.”

Eric pulled away and pulled out his phone from his back pocket, and began typing swiftly. “Not anymore.”

Two words was all it took to set the guy off. “Your ass is off of the team. You will be lucky if they even let you apply to be the waterboy. I’m going to make sure that Coach Atley…”

Bittle held up his phone, “Coach Atley knows. I just texted him to let him know that I attended a house party on campus, that I had one drink, and that I’m leaving now. He responded with, ‘Thank you for being honest about it, son. We will discuss further next week.’ So, I get the feeling that I’m still okay.”

Then all hell broke loose. 

The thing was, Eric was used to bullies. And even playing football and doing everything that he thought he could to blend in, it was never enough to deflect a few jerks who thought that he was an easy stepping stool to increase their social rank. So, even though he hated fighting in his bones, Coach had put his hand on his shoulder that morning in 7th grade and said, “I will do everything in my power to stop what I can. I will talk to those boys, their parents, the teachers and the principal. And that also means showing you how to throw a mean left hook.”

Pearson, pulled his arm back to throw a punch. And Eric saw the whole action in slow motion, the contraction of Pearson’s arm, the snap forward motion, and Eric was already moving, pivoting his body left and away from the punch. The look on Pearson’s face as he hit nothing but air was beautiful, but it was made even better the moment when he saw Eric’s fist come straight for his solar plexus. 

One of the goons tried to jump in, and in two steps, Eric tripped the guy into Shitty’s door, and then he kicked the door right over his shoulder, splintering the aging wood. “I’m done being polite. We are done here.” 

Lardo whistled, “You put the hole in the door?”

Eric shrugged, “Every once in a while, you just need a big show of force.”

Shitty nodded. “And it worked too, except for then like 10 other dudes piled up the steps to see what was going on, so then Jack had to pull down the fire extinguisher and spray them in the face to get them to pick up Pearson and his entourage and go. 

“In the mix-up, Eric walked out never to be heard or seen again. The only hint of his existence was the 5 pies that showed up the next morning on the Haus steps with a note that said, ‘My apologies about the door. Please accept these pies as a gift of my sincerity.’

“And that was last year. Nine months of knowing what perfect pie tastes like and being ruined for all other pastry encased confections.”

Jack’s silence encased the room before he finally spoke up, “So, was everything okay with your teammates and coaches?”

Eric nodded. “Oh yeah. Pearson had been really dragging the team’s moral down. He was trying his best to assert the last of his power onto everybody and everything. He was practically yelling at the goal post by the last game. He was really exaggerating the consequences of me going to a party especially since he had the entire upperclassmen offensive line drunk. The coaches were a little upset that I was at the party, but not nearly enough to kick me off the team. Pearson was not going to tell everyone that he got knocked down by a freshman who was 80 pounds lighter than him. He instead blamed you guys. Which is why the football team is banned from ever going to a hockey Haus party. Jay and I got off easy - we only had to take an online corse and write a paper.”

Lardo laughed, “I think I need to update that tag by the door. Instead of ‘Drunk Football Bro’, I think I need to update it to say, ‘Badass Football Bro.’ And on that note, I think I am going to head home. Thank you for the dessert and Bittle, I hope to see you and your baked goods around the Haus. 

“YES! You have full Haus privileges, in fact, you can have my dibs if you promise to make me pie all year.” Shitty announced. “I’ll update the bylaws.”

Eric looked around at everyone’s smiling face and was relieved that there were no hard feelings from last year. In fact, Jack looked amused in his own quiet way and Eric was helpless with it. “Okay. Plus, I have a lot of ideas for this class, so I will probably be here a lot.”

“’S’awesome.” 

Eric looked over at the wall, “Oh my gosh, is it really 8pm? I have to go! I have to finish a calculus work set before tomorrow.”

Jack’s face fell for a moment, his eyebrows shifting downward, “Oh, we didn’t finish the stew.”

“That was just an experiment. Serve it up and let me know what your housemates think. Maybe we can try another recipe later this week?” And Eric kicked himself. They were being polite, you can’t just invite yourself over to their house, invade the kitchen and just whip up a recipe or two just when the urge strikes. 

“I’ll make you a common room key - it’ll get you into the front door. I mean, you could just text me, but I may be a bit busy, I wouldn’t want you to have to wait for me.”

Lardo and Shitty quickly looked at each other with a look that Eric couldn’t decipher fast enough. 

“Does a bit busy mean, ‘negotiating a NHL contract?’”

Jack blushed, the color only highlighting those damn cheekbones and chin. “You are always welcome.”

Eric smiled mostly to himself as he scooped up his backpack. “I guess I can leave my pans here for a while. Thank you, Jack. I’ll text you before class?” And he walked out, just like his mom taught him to.

She always said, ‘leave them with something to remember you by or leave them wanting more.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh! I'm not exactly satisfied with this chapter, but now you all know what happened at the Kegster. 
> 
> I'm still working out how to draft a long fic, so thank you for reading as I learn.
> 
> Next time, on the Rules We Made Up...
> 
> Eric goes to his first hockey game.


	10. Accidental Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hockey Team does not practice on Tuesday afternoons...usually.

The Samwell Men’s Hockey Team does not have practice on Tuesday afternoons. 

Or so Bitty thought. Last year at least, men’s hockey practiced in the morning, then there was the adult community league and then a few hours later, there was public open skate. 

Eric contributed this mistake less on his scheduling assumptions from last year and more on the general sloppiness that he’s been exhibiting now that he’s apparently friends (oh gosh) with the captain of the hockey team. Eric also had some real uncharitable thoughts for the person who was supposed to update Faber’s website. 

Because, the entire hockey team was currently on the ice, playing an all out practice game. 

Had Eric been smart, he would have heard the commotion of the hockey team practicing, threw his bag over his shoulder and ran for it, never to be seen, but he just wanted a quick peek at the practice. Fair's fair, right? If Jack Zimmerman could crash his practice and see him drenched and smelling like a mule, then he could just catch a quick glimpse, right? Right. 

This didn’t look like practice though, this looked like a final game in the final four, with everyone giving their all, especially #1, weaving through the players like he had a force field around him. The defense couldn’t touch him, and he kept firing pucks at the net only to be blocked by the goalie who furiously batted anything near him away from the net. 

A whistle blew and the game stopped, the goalie pulling up and skating to the center of the ice with the rest of the team for a huddle. Did hockey players huddle? Eric wasn’t sure. Jack's voice could barely be heard over the scraping scuttle on the ice. Eric could only hear snatches of tighter defense, good hustle, be faster, and skate better.

Practice dismissed and Eric had to fight the intense and sudden urge to duck and hide in the stands and wait for the team to file out, but he had some firm words for himself. First of all, he was not going to duck and run like he was doing something wrong. Second, Jack had actually come to his practice, so there should be no awkwardness while Eric just waited for Open Skate to start and third, well shit, they already saw him.

“Eric 16 Bit Bittle! How the hell are ya man?” Shitty yelled from the ice. Jack’s head snapped up and he looked around until he found Eric in the stand. Eric waved pulling out his phone to act as a prop in his ‘this is not a big deal facade’. 

Shitty and Jack skated towards the boards, and it was only polite for Bitty was walk down, right? 

He hefted he duffle bag onto his shoulder and walked down the stadium stairs towards the ice. 

“Well, I live and breathe, it’s Bits!” Shitty said, pulling his helmet off. Jack looked up curiously, a frown pulling at his lips.

“Did I miss something? Were we supposed to meet?” Jack asked, looking deeply chagrined and Bitty could not let that continue. 

“No! No, I was in the area and you know, open skate.” Eric hugged and realized that both Shitty and Jack were waiting for him to continue. 

“Like, whew, football practice takes a lot out of you in the summer, and so like, my mom, she used to skate, so it was a special treat to go to the ice arena in Georgia and just skate around and cool off. I suppose I could have found a pool and gone swimming, but you know, Open Skate worked well with my class schedule. You guys looked great out there. When do your games start? Hockey starts later than football, right? What time does the hockey team even practice, not that I’m asking, but I’m just curious, you know?” Eric inhaled, a little more loudly than he would have liked. He stares at Jack and hopes and prays that he buried his reason for walking over to Faber under enough words that he can escape peacefully. 

“What’s in the duffel bag, Bittle?” Jack asked, leaning over the board. 

And that’s that. It's involuntary. Eric inwardly groans as he imagines his skin thickening into ragged and tough scales as his defenses start to rise. He knows that whatever comes out of his mouth next will sound defensive or aloof, or worse, vicious. And god, he doesn't want that. But he wants even less to be teased about spinning circles on the ice. In that mocking, dismissive, and insulting “tone”. 

"Do you have your own skates?” 

Holy shit. That is not the “tone”. Jack is looking up at Eric like he just found a large and precious Christmas present under the tree with his name on it. And Jack doesn’t have the most expressive face, but he looks so thrilled and hopeful, his eyes widening and the blue looks even brighter, that Eric goes completely hot in the face. 

He opens his mouth and then just nods, he's so stunned.

Jack jumps over to the board and starts pulling off his jersey and shoulder pads, leaving him in his under armor shirt. 

Eric looks at Shitty. Shitty is staring at Jack, eyes wide, mustache twitching. 

Jack jumps back over and motions for Eric to hurry up. “You have your own skates. So, you must know what you are doing. Are you any good?”

Eric sits down on the bench and kicks off his shoes and pulls out his skates. 

“Figure skates? Those look like really nice ones too.” And if Jack wasn’t standing on the ice, he would be bouncing on his toes in his eagerness. 

Eric finally finds his voice. “What, you want to race or something? No one on the team enough of a challenge for you?”

Jack finally takes a moment to reign himself in, sheepishly looking from under his eyelashes. “I’ve seen you run, I just had a picture in my head that you would be really good on the ice.”

The thing is, Eric is very good on the ice. He’s more than good. Maybe he didn’t compete and maybe he doesn’t have any medals or anything, but he could have. And the football season is nothing but a hot minute compared to other sports and he needs to cross train. He met Katya when he began ballet at age 7 and she put him in his first set of skates at 8. For almost 3 months every year, he alternated between dance and the ice as his primary form of conditioning. 

While most of the hockey team has filed out, a few have stayed back to watch. Shitty, Holster, and Ransom are grinning widely. The goalie, Chow, has taken off his face mask and is watching eagerly. 

Bitty laces up and steps onto the ice. He pulls the zipper up on his hoodie and runs his hands down his track pants. His heart is beating widely, but he sounds steady when he says, “What do I get if I win?”

“Breakfast at Jerry’s before class?” 

Eric nodded. And used his toe picks to walk next to Jack. “Twice around the rink?”

Jack squared up, and prepared to push off. On Shitty’s yell, they were off.

And it was a close race. Jack skated like he played. He held nothing back. He skated hard, head down, intense, and powerfully and so it took the edge off when he won. But, he won only by a hair. 

Jack heaved coming to spin around at the finish line, his face brilliant. 

“Competitive much, Zimmermann?”

Jack laughed, head back and loud, “You act like you aren’t.”

Eric sniffed, and rolled his eyes, but with no actual anger of frustration. “If I beat THE CAPTAIN OF THE HOCKEY TEAM when I only casually show up for open skate, then clearly I would have been in the wrong sport. You need a new winger, Jack?”

Winger was the right term, right? Because Jack went completely red in the face and Eric worried for a moment that he had suggested some sort of inappropriate risqué act or something. 

For a loss of anything else to say, “So, do I owe you brunch at Jerry’s?” 

Jack shrugged, “You don’t have to. Thank you for the race. Its one thing to imagine something, another to live it.”

No truer words, Eric thought. He looked around and the remainder of the hockey team was being herded into the locker room by a very persistent Shitty, who threw up a thumbs up sign behind him as he disappeared out of sight. 

Jack continued, “So, I know you don’t just skate around in circles on the ice.”

Eric shook his head, “I do a few spins, a few jumps, nothing too fancy.”

“Too fancy.”

“Yes, I’m not Yuzuru Hanyu.”

“I have no idea who that is.”

Eric laughed as he started skating backwards. He told himself to keep in simple, no one liked a showboat, but he felt buoyant and he lifted off into a double toe loop and finished in one of the fastest spins he had done in a long while. His muscles would protest tomorrow, but it felt good. 

Eric slowed down to Jack’s clapping. 

“I should change, but would you mind if I hung out with you? You could show me how to spin without falling on my butt?”

Somewhere in Georgia, Eric’s mother was smiling at nothing, satisfied that she was right about this. Jack Zimmermann was flirting, in the most obtuse and adorable way possible. Eric was sure of it now which gave him the confidence to throw in, “Sure, wanna grab dinner afterwards?”

Jack backed away, bumping into the side of the ring, “Yea, that sounds great. Let me go shower and change, I’ll be back in a few.” And he was off. 

Did this count as a date since he never said the word date?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnson: I’m glad that you held back this chapter.  
> Airplanes and Cookies: You are such a spoilsport.  
> Johnson: If Eric had come out onto the ice and performed a sequence from Yuri on Ice, I’m not sure how many people would have bought it. The double toe loop was pushing it.”  
> AnC: But the visual…plus, this is my AU. I do what I want.  
> Johnson: Sure sure
> 
> Next time, The Accidental Skate Date


	11. The Locker Room

Jack had never considered how good a friend Shitty was until this very moment when he ran into the locker room and pulled Shitty back through and into the equipment room. 

“I think I may be falling in love with Eric Bittle and he’s waiting for me on the ice. This may be a date, but I’m not sure.”

Shitty only blinked once before slapping Jack on the back. “I get a good feeling about him. He’s good people.”

Utterly betrayed, Jack hissed, “You knew!” 

Shitty’s crunched his nose and put his hands on his hips. He was only dressed in a towel, having been dragged away before he could get to the showers. “I had an idea? Maybe? Doesn’t matter. Guesses are not confirmation. So, what do you want to do?

“I don’t know!” Jack yelled before bringing his voice back down to a whisper. “This is really new for me.”

Shitty, a good man, only blinked.

And putting aside his impatience that his supposedly best friend was leaving him high and dry in his moment of need, Jack understood Shitty’s hesitation. 

Jack knew that he was missing ’something’ with the whole sex and dating thing, but he could never really put his finger on what. Here he was, 24 years old. He grew up around a lot of other guys. He heard the all of the locker-room talk. He had watched porn, and whatever switch labeled “passion” that was supposed to click on, just never really did. 

His dates with Kate, Camilla, and Samantha were bland and practically perfunctory. A necessary evil. Needed a date for Winter Screw? Call Kate. Some athletic dinner? Camilla had his back. And he did try with Camilla, he really did. She was beautiful, and smart, and had a wicked backhand that could carry her all the way to a Grand Slam, but even topless in his bed, he couldn’t stop wondering if he could work out Dartmouth’s defense before their next game. 

God, even when he sat down and sorted out his confusing thing with Kent, he still wouldn’t call it attraction or love. Kent was an agglomeration of everything Jack liked woven together into a tangled mess that looked like it could be love. His dedication to hockey, Jack’s admiration for his skill, and a not so small bit of vanity, but it could never even hold a candle to what his parents described. It was driven more by jealousy than fondness. Hard edges instead of warm embraces. There was never an instant flash of insight of “That’s going to be my spouse.” With Kent, after everything went south, Jack didn’t even hold out hope that they would ever speak again let alone be friends. 

And now, Jack can feel the spark that is rapidly expanding into fireworks underneath his breastbone. 

Eric had skated beautifully around the rink, strong and sure. He looked ready to launch into the air at a moment’s notice. And when he spun around and looked Jack in the eye, and asked if he wanted a new winger, Jack wanted to simply say “yes”. He wanted to feel the rush of cold air on his face as he skated next to Eric. He wanted the connected passes, kitchen study dates, and the camaraderie. He wanted wanted to run him into the boards during a celly and then his goddamn libido…normally cool and practically missing in action for the past 6 years decided to stand up and yell “Imagine how great he would look naked!” And fuck. That was it. Because he could imagine it and he nearly needed to sit down on ice because it came on so sudden.

“He’s going to think I stood him up. I need to shower.” Jack mumbled, heading towards his stall. 

Shitty followed behind him, and thankfully many of SMH team were filing out, ready to get a jump start on their evening. 

“Look, the only thing I can suggest is go out there and be yourself - you already had a kinda sorta date, think of this as your second instead of your first.”

Jack quickly stripped and grabbed a towel to jump into the shower, barely getting wet before sudsing up and rinsing before hopping out to throw on his clothes. 

His damp skin made pulling on a simple black t-shirt and jeans nearly impossible. He ran his fingers through his hair and hoped it was enough. He thought about asking Nurse if he could use some of his cologne, but decided against it preferring to smell like himself instead of anyone else.  
Shitty shot him a quick thumbs up as Jack ran back towards the ice, hockey skates thrown over his shoulder.

There were only a couple other people on the ice, which was common. It was so early in the year, most students didn’t know that they could get any ice time. But Eric knew and Jack wondered how many times did their paths almost cross last year. 

As Jack walked up to the boards, he watched Eric take long strides around the ring, lost in thought. Occasionally, he would pivot and skate swiftly backwards looking over his shoulder in order to avoid the other two people, a couple of girls as they wobbled around the rink giggling and holding each other up. 

As he laced up his skates again, he wondered if he would have recognized the opportunity earlier? Would he have acted on it?

“You miss all of the shots you don’t take, son.” His father had told him, over and over through the years. “Never hesitate to try.”  
“Good grief, Bobby, life isn’t always a sports metaphor.” His mother had replied one time when Jack was 16, calling out over the frozen pond in the backyard. Jack had stopped skating and turned to face her, hockey stick at his waist, father at his back. 

Alicia would often interrupt their practice when she thought that it was getting too intense in order to not so subtlety remind Bob of his duty to be a supportive father, especially since Jack had a long line of coaches all ready to dissect his performance in order to push him farther. “Your father may be right, but you also miss the shots that you aren’t ready for and that’s okay too. Don’t blame yourself if a shot doesn’t go in.”

Bob skated over to his wife and kissed her on the forehead. “I thought you said to stop relating everything to sports.”

Alicia shrugged, “I wanted to make sure you both heard and understood me.”

As Jack stepped onto the ice, he could feel it, everything shifting into place. The ice and lights were perfect, Eric looked up and waved, big and happy from across the arena’s ice and Jack could see the shot line up.

All he had to do was find his bravery and take a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello out there in the Real World, Johnson here. The Author would like you to know that she broke up the chapter because it ended up too long and it had a natural break in it. 
> 
> She hopes to have the next chapter up by Tuesday since it's mostly witten and just needs editing. 
> 
> She also expresses her gratitude for your continued patience as she tries to manage her everyday life and her hobby. 
> 
> If you ever wonder when there is going to be an update, you can check out AirplanesandCookie's tumbler page where you will probably find out way more than you needed to know about her family.


	12. The Accidental Skate Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's good to be clear about things.

Jack’s heart was doing it’s best to beat straight through his chest, its echo reverberating all the way up to his ears. 

Okay, he thought, this is just adrenaline. He could work with this. As Eric began to skate towards him from the other side of the ring, he thought, this was just like a face-off. An ordinary face-off, routine, even. 

Eric skidded to a stop right up into Jack’s space, spraying a few flecks of ice in his direction. 

Okay, so maybe not a routine face-off - but maybe in a very important game, like game seven of the Stanley Cup Final. 

“Wow, Jack! You were so fast. I barely made it around the ring a few times before you were back. I guess I’m just a slow poke. By the time I get in the shower, I always end up as the last one out.” Eric glowed. Skin and eyes brightened from the cold air and exercise. 

Alright, this was nothing like a face-off. Jack was practically in the NHL at this point. He was no stranger to jumping into any game and knowing what to do to turn it around. He has never, ever in his life, felt this wrong-footed. He might as well tried to have a face-off in nothing but his underpants, armed with nothing but a slotted serving spoon. He could barely skate under the weight of the full brunt of his emotions.

How the hell did anyone function like this? This was horrible. 

Eric pulled in even closer and tenderly pushed Jack’s hair back from his forehead, “Are you okay? You look really flushed. Are you eating enough protein?”

This was the best thing that has ever happened to him.

Jack nodded, “I should have grabbed a protein shake.”

Eric’s eyes lit up, “Oh, I have just the thing.” And he spun around Jack and began pushing him towards the stands. He was unsurprisingly effective, maneuvering Jack back towards the entrance and off of the ice. “I was messing around and improved my no bake protein bar recipe. I have a bunch in my bag - want a couple?”

“The invite still stands, you are more than welcome to come to the Haus anytime.”

Eric got to the side and stepped gingerly towards his bag and pulled out a tupperware container with a batch of bars covered in chocolate and pretzels. “I don’t think you understand how often I would be at your house if you give me free pass to your kitchen. You would see me everyday. You would be quickly sick of me. Just imagine me in your kitchen first thing in the morning, singing Beyonce, whipping up pancakes. Do you want that?”

Yes. Jack wanted that. Badly. But instead he said, “I think you just gave a really good sales pitch.” He said as he reached for one of the bars. 

Jack quickly stuffed his mouth and was reaching for a second, when Eric leaned in close so that his lips were practically touching his ear. “Do you think that’s a date.”

Jack coughed. He’s sure that he missed a few words here and there, but he definitely heard ‘date.”

Jack pulled back and looked at Eric, who used his head to point towards the girls on the ice, still making their way slowing around the ring. Oh.

One of the girls, with a long brown braid down to her waist was skating backwards leading the other with a short tapered afro while she complained pleasantly about falling on her butt. 

Jack smiled down at the last bite of the protein bar in his hand, “This would be my ideal date. Introducing someone to what I love the most, skating hand in hand.” Somehow, impossibly, he felt even more awkward before asking, “What’s your ideal date.”

Eric looked up at Jack through his eyelashes. “Well, If you must know, my ideal date would involved taking over someone’s kitchen, making a meal with that someone and eating together and talking about anything and everything.”

Jack knows what he’s supposed to do now. He just has to ask Eric out. Simple. Except he’s never asked anyone out on a date. Back in Juniors, Kent asked him. Or rather, he locked the door to his room and pushed into Jack’s face and asked if he wanted to fuck around. It was effective, but maybe too direct. Shitty did all of the setting up with Kate and Samantha. And Camilla took almost the exact same approach Kent had, with a ruthless forwardness of, “The Student Athlete Awards Dinner is next week, let’s go together. Afterwards, if you are into it, you can come back to my place.”

Should he buy flowers? Was he supposed to suggest something, an activity? Was that too formal? Maybe Netflix and chill? Was that too informal? Should he ask when he comes to the Haus to bake? But what if he doesn’t take Jack’s invite. What if he asks after class? Did Eric even date?

“Jack, I can hear you thinking over there, so let me help you out since I already put a few more of my cards on the table last year. I really like you, I think you are unbearably cute. Would you like to wrap up here and go get dinner as a date? With me?” Eric asked. “Or we can forget I ever said anything, I will drop out of the seminar and you will never see me again!”

“Yes!” And thank god, that just saved Jack about 48 hours of feeling like he was in free fall. Nasa could save so much money if they just put astronauts up in orbit with their unrequited loves. “Yes, I would like to go out with you. Or stay in, or do anything you want, really.” Jack thought for a minute, “We go to the same school, how would you avoid me for the rest of the year?”

Eric heaved a sigh of relief, and grinned, “Jack, I skated about twice a week here all winter semester and you never saw me. I am a master of avoidance.”

“You weren’t so hard to find this year.”

“Jack Zimmermann, don’t you chirp me! I wasn’t expecting you to sign up for my class and hunt me down during my practice!”

Jack, stood up straight, feeling a lot more steady and stood close, “What I’m saying is that I’m glad that it worked out then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A really short chapter that marks the half way point in the story :-)


	13. Our Second Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today was going to be a good day. He could visualize it perfectly. He had a second date with Jack late in the evening to accommodate their afternoon practice and class. At 8pm, they were going to the grocery store and pick up a few ingredients to make a simple dinner at the Haus. Then, afterwards, they would cuddle on the moss green biohazard of a sofa and talk about their day, or maybe they would pretend to be studious and go over Eric’s french flash cards. Or, they could simply make out. Eric was open to all of those ideas even if he did have a clear preference for one over the others. 
> 
> So there was no way in red-hot-hell he was going to die out here on this practice field before his third date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Blows off a layer of dust*
> 
> Whew! Let's get back to it!

Eric laid on his back and watched a dramatic series of white clouds float by in the autumn breeze. The one directly overhead looked a little like one of those three tiered and lopsided wedding cakes that were so in style a couple of years back. 

He gently took stock of his body as he breathed in through his nose and blew out of his mouth. His heartbeat beating a steady staccato rhythm, gently slowing as he continued to breathe. 

Today was going to be a good day. He could visualize it perfectly. He had a second date with Jack late in the evening to accommodate their afternoon practice and class. At 8pm, they were going to the grocery store and pick up a few ingredients to make a simple dinner at the Haus. Then, afterwards, they would cuddle on the moss green biohazard of a sofa and talk about their day, or maybe they would pretend to be studious and go over Eric’s french flash cards. Or, they could simply make out. Eric was open to all of those ideas even if he did have a clear preference for one over the others. 

So there was no way in red-hot-hell he was going to die out here on this practice field before his third date. 

One of the athletic trainers loomed overhead, shining a light into his face. “I need you to start counting backwards from 100 by 3.”  
It was a stupid question. He would have to think hard about it even when he wasn’t laid out with his torso groaning in pain. Why couldn’t they ask him to half his favorite recipe by sight?  
But the fear of being carried away on the stretcher was enough that he gritted his teeth and eased himself up. “I’m alright, really. I’m fine.”

The trainer was not appeased and Bitty had to count only messing up once or twice.

Someone pulled off his helmet and he pushed the wet hair back off of his face. Each movement was agony. A trainer helped him stand up. The defensive tackle that had taken him down looked sheepishly from over on the side. “Bits, man. I thought you saw me coming.”

The coaching staff was going to yell until his ears fell off, but Eric couldn’t help himself. He reached over and pulled at the tackle’s jersey, jerking 250 pounds of man closer. “Repeat after me. Heads up.”

He mumbled back, “Heads up.”

Eric couldn’t help but console him a little, he looked so miserable. So, he patted that bus of a freshmen on the shoulder pads. “The coaches are going to tear into you, but you managed to catch me and so I doubt they will bench you.”

The tackle’s face lit up, a smile curling his lips up until he looked down over at the trainers, and his face fell again into the physical manifestation of despair. He shuffled his feet as he moved out of the way as the trainers led Eric off the field. 

The exam was quick and even Eric was relieved that it was only a bruised rib. 

“I don’t want to risk it, so how about we see how you are moving come Saturday, but I think you may need to take a knee for the upcoming game.” One of the coaches said, both to Eric and to the trainer for his notes. 

Eric watched the training staff go back to work, pulling out a wrap for his ribs, pulling out an ice pack and pain killers. He would probably sit out the next practice and go easy on the weight training to give his body a little time to heal. 

He was going to have to call Coach. 

He oscillated back and forth for a bit. It really was a minor injury, no need to really call home. But the world was much smaller than Eric had ever expected. All it would take if for Coach to hear it through the grapevine that he was hurt and then it would be 11th grade all over again. 

Eric flipped his phone twice more, before hitting speed dial. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that his dad should be heading out onto the field for his own practice, which would be perfect. Eric could leave an 8 second message - ‘Hey, I’m fine, got hit. Sitting out next game. Wanted to let you know, talk to you later.’ and hopefully escape scot-free until three of four hours later. 

Of course his father picked up on the first ring. 

“Junior, what’s wrong?”

Eric was having really shitty luck today.

“Hi dad, I just…you know how you said I should call, if I ever took a big hit, well it wasn’t a huge hit. I walked off the field myself, so that’s something. And like, nothing is broken.”

“Junior.”

Eric sighed, “I got the wind knocked out of me, bruised rib, and they are probably going to bench me for the next game. The coach is worried that I can’t run as fast.”

“No no…this is Good.” Coach said, voice heavy with something that Eric couldn’t really pull apart. “If you couldn’t bounce back up, then you probably need to heal up a couple of days. Just take it easy, but be ready to work, you don’t want to coaches to think you are going soft on the bench.”

Eric closed his eyes and bit his tongue. 

“Junior, You got someone to check on you a few times? I know how loopy you get on anything stronger than regular Motrin.”

“Um, yeah, I think I can find someone to hang out with.”

His father’s voice perked up. “…You have a date, don’t you.”

“Dad.” Eric blushed, and then reached over for his water bottle and grimaced. 

“Oh lord, it’s that Zimmermann boy, isn’t it? Your mother has started planning your wedding.”

Eric froze. “It’s not like that…”

“Yet. Look, all I’m saying is that you need to tell your mother yourself. I am not getting in the middle of that conversation. She’ll probably call you and want to know how you are doing and what’s his favorite pie is and his suit and shoe size.”

And Eric chuckled, because he could easily see it too. He hung up with his dad and began pulling on his clothes over the bandages and rushing as fast as he could so that he could be gone before the team got out of practice. 

He smelled, but that was preferable to the one hundred and one questions the guys would have for him. 

His head was slightly woozy and his ribs and back hurt immensely but he made it back to his dorm room without incident. He made the mistake of looking at his phone again, noticing with the sensation of a stone sinking in his gut, the four unanswered texts from Dean and Mason. 

“Dicky, they are your friends. You gotta call them back.” He mumbled to himself. But he plugged his phone in on the dock and eased onto his bed. Lightheaded, he reasoned that a quick nap before walking over to the Haus to meet Jack would refresh him. It would only be an hour and that would be plenty of time to shower. 

He had barely closed his eyes when he heard someone pounding on his door. He spared a quick glance at his alarm clock and yelled, “Oh my God, I’m so late!”

He jerked upwards and gritted his teeth at the sudden stab of pain on his side. He threw his legs over to the side and yelped as he got up. He flung the door open, without looking through the peep hole and yelped again at the broad chest taking up the doorway. 

Jack stood there, arm raised and eyes wide before he finally spoke. “I’m so glad you are okay.”

Eric muttered an incomprehensible jumble of syllables that finally assembled themselves into a passable apology. “Jack, I’m so very sorry, I thought I was only going to take a quick nap.”

“Eric, it’s okay.”

“How did you know I would be here?” Eric asked, moving over to let Jack into his room. Señor Bun was sitting proudly on his bed and yesterday’s underwear and t-shirt was over on the floor in the corner. There was a dirty plate on the desk and Eric wanted to smack himself for opening the door without at least doing a cursory decency check of the room.

“Oh, umm, Mason is in a women studies class with Shitty. He told Shitty that you were hit by a bus.” Jack said as he walked in.

“The Bus.” Eric corrected closing the door behind him.

“Well, I figured that if you were hurt, you probably didn’t feel like going out on a date, but I wanted to make sure you ate and see if there was anything you needed. 

Jack seemed completely unbothered, sparing not a single glance at the disaster of his single room or the traitorous stuffed bunny as he placed a canvas bag on the desk and began pulling out styrofoam containers of chicken tenders, burgers and fries. “I wasn’t sure which you would want, so I picked up a few things.”

Eric gapped at him, mouth opening and words not coming out. 

Jack turned back to Eric and folded up the bag. “You probably need your rest, so I can go. Do you have anyone checking in on you?”

Eric looked at the mountain of food on his desk. “There is no way I can eat all of that.”

Jack’s eyes drooped a bit and he frowned and Eric had to hurry up and finish his thought, “I would love it if you stayed and ate with me? Maybe we could watch a movie or something?”

“Netflix and chill?”  
Eric laughed. “Hulu and take out?” 

“Sounds good.” Jack said, going towards the small bathroom and filling the water bottle Eric kept on his desk. He came back and picked up two of the styrofoam containers. “Chicken tenders or burger?” 

Eric pointed towards the burger and Jack passed it over, grinning as he took the chicken tenders. They settled in on the single bed, leaning back against the headboard, and Eric opened up his laptop and sat it in the space between their legs. He looked up over at Jack and the beauty of his face, eyes downcast as he opened a pack of barbecue sauce, smiling slightly. 

“You like taking care of people.” Eric blurted, astonished as Jack’s face reddened before he responding.

“Only some people.” Jack said before taping the mousepad on the laptop. “What’s your favorite thing to zone out to?”

Eric shrugged and let Jack pick a season of Mythbusters and moved Señor Bun - The Traitorous, in between them on the bed, making sure he had a clear view of the screen. They sat together, enjoying their food and Eric nestled into the comfort of Jack’s warmth without any pressure to put up a tough front.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses. Sorry for the wait!
> 
> The plan is to wrap this story up by the end of the month.


	14. Morning Deets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shitty’s eyes lit up and took up half of his face, and his smile took up the other half.
> 
> “You are kinda creepy when you grin at me like that.”
> 
> “DEETS!” Shitty bellowed, smacking Jack upside the head with a snatched pillow.

The sound of the bathroom door squeaking open rustled Jack from his light sleep. The pale morning light seeped into his room as Shitty quietly made his way over to the other side of the bed, it dipping under his weight.

“Get out.” Jack rumbled into his pillow, completing his roll onto his stomach.

“Can’t a guy ask his best friend how his date went?”

“Not at…” Jack held up his arm into the light coming in from the window. “…7am?”

“You are usually up and running by 6am.” Shitty smirked, settling himself comfortably on his side, head propped up on his hand as he poked Jack on his side.

“I can sleep in if I want to.” 

Shitty’s glee was contagious as he inched closer to Jack. “Oh, and especially after you had a low key date with Bits. I wonder what could have transpired that would have changed your morning routine.”

Jack flung himself back over. “You aren’t leaving.”

“Not until you dish the deets.”

Jack rolled his eyes and focused on a water stain on the ceiling, fully intending to silently freeze Shitty out of his bed, but that damn water spot kinda looked like a bunny in profile and Jack couldn’t help it as the muscles started to pull his face into a smile. 

“Nothing happened. I brought him some dinner and we watched TV and talked.”

Shitty’s eyes lit up and took up half of his face, and his smile took up the other half.

“You are kinda creepy when you grin at me like that.”

“DEETS!” Shitty bellowed, smacking Jack upside the head with a snatched pillow.

As far as Jack was concerned, there wasn’t that much to tell. They had watched an episode of a discovery show that Jack had heard about and ate dinner before Bits had quietly asked about his day as they ate cold french fries.

“We talked. Seriously, that was it. I told him about how I have been trying to schedule meetings with a few NHL team recruiters between practices and classes.”

Shitty raised a single eyebrow and mimed like he was pulling a string from Jacks chest towards him. Even Jack chuckled as Shitty seemed to struggle with pulling so hard that he flung himself off of the bed.

He had spent two hours with Bits, sitting on his bed, and left feeling like he had known him for years. He confided in him. About the anxiety brewing even before the season began, that he was going to disappoint the recruiters who were betting a lot of money that he wasn’t going to flame out during the year. The pressure to make it to and win the Final Four. Somehow managing to keep his GPA. He did not talk about the pressure of realizing that he had no idea how to talk to attractive and engaging football players. That was a whole other level of stress.

But his conversation with Eric, Bits, felt so private, and Jack didn’t want to shatter that gossamer intimacy by sharing it, even with Shitty, his best friend. It was still so new and precious. So, Jack just shrugged and gave a shy smile. 

“Okay, okay. I won’t pry about what you talked about. But how are you feeling?”

Jack bit his lip and frowned at the ceiling. “Unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.”

Shitty merely blinked, a clear invitation to continue. 

“I mean, I’ve dated, you know I have, but this…it’s like a panic attack, but fun? It literally hurts. My stomach is a mess, my breathing is erratic, I can’t control my face because it goes so hot and cold, the pads of my fingers are more sensitive - like I brushed my hand against his and I felt it all the way to the ends of my hair follicles. It feels like I’m dying a little bit.”

“Infatuation, bro. It’ll knock you on your ass.”

“But then he’ll smile at me and my heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest, but happily? Does that make sense?”

Shitty flopped onto his back and linked his hand with Jack’s, shaking it towards the ceiling between then. “Yep. It does.”

They sat like that for a few minutes, Jack beginning to doze back to sleep when his phone chirped beside him. Jack reached over, hoping momentarily that it would be a message from Bitty, perhaps with suggestions for their next date, a check in about his ribs, maybe even a little peppy “Good luck at practice!”

All of the warmth drained from his face as he saw the name listed. 

:Hey Zimms. You miss me? I’m going to be in Boston for a game this week. I can bring the Aces general manager with me to Samwell. Don’t fuck this up. Call me back.:


	15. 10 Pound Bag of Flour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric placed his hands flat on the Haus counter, closed his eyes, counted to 10, before opening them again. And nope, his eyes were not deceiving him. There were 10 quiches, 3 dozen oatmeal muffins, 5 dozen oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, 2 apples pies and 2 more mock apple pies because he ran out of apples.

_Do you even want to be here?_

Eric placed his hands flat on the Haus counter, closed his eyes, counted to 10, before opening them again.  And nope, his eyes were not deceiving him.   There were 10 quiches, 3 dozen oatmeal muffins, 5 dozen oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, 2 apples pies and 2 more mock apple pies because he ran out of apples. 

_Look son, I won’t tell you what to do.  But I know you didn’t come here from Georgia to sit on the side lines because of some little hit in practice._

Apparently, a 10 lb bag of flour makes a lot of baked goods. 

_Suck it up and get back in the game, Bittle._

A low whistle startled him into turning around to find the 1st and 2nd lines of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team, minus their debonair captain, staring at him in wide eyed and slack jawed awe.  

“Ha!  Hey y’all!  I hope you don’t mind me in your kitchen, I just had an idea for a few recipes and next thing I know, I’m whipping up a storm.  Don’t you worry, I used a few of your ingredients that you had kicking around here, but I’ll run to the Stop and Shop and replace your flour, oatmeal and eggs.”

Shitty ran into the room and threw his arms around Eric in a huge bone rattling hug.  “I hope this is okay, but you don’t even know how much we needed this.  It’s an oasis in the dessert.” He mumbled as he nuzzled his face into Eric’s hair.  

Shitty seemed to be very affectionate and very unaware of the sirens going off in Eric’s head as he quickly adjusted to their level of physical contact.  

“Are you taking all of this back with you or…” The giant blond one with glasses that clearly was in the wrong sport, asked, pointing directly at the oatmeal muffins.  

“Oh my gosh, yes, this is all for you!  I know you had practice and all.  Thank you for letting me get some notes on a few recipes and I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I clean up in here.”

“I wouldn’t bother.” Some boy with thick dark brown coils of hair and moss colored eyes winked down at him.  “I think the guys will lick the counters clean seeing how fast they are gobbling everything up now.”

“How did you get the oven to cooperate?” Another guy, red haired, freckles and just as tall and broad as the first asked.  “I mean, I did a patch job, but I had no idea that you would be able to keep the temperature steady enough to produce…” He waved lamely at the disappearing pile of food.  Holster (was that his name?)  had a cheese quiche and a bottle of sriracha in one arm and was reaching into the fridge for a bottle of gatorade.  

“I was only gone for three hours. I went straight to practice and came back here.  I’m going to call this magic.”

“No such thing as magic.” Ransom (everybody on campus knew or knew of Ransom) said pushing him aside to grab two muffins and five cookies. 

“Clearly, you don’t see this veritable feast laid out in front of us that appeared.  Look at this, this is homemade crust, dude.  That has to rest for at least an hour before you roll it out.  Is this lard?  Please please say no.”

Bits shook his head no as Ransom continued. “But man, I bet if I laid out all of the cooking times, and put it on a spreadsheet, it would totally be impressive, better than any of us ever could hope to do, but you could do it.”

“Prove it!  I dare you to make muffins and a few dozen cookies in less than three hours!”

“You are fucking on!”

As he watched five guys grab as much as they could hold in their two hands and mouth and mumble their gratitude around bites of pastry.  Eric’s heartbeat was beginning to slow and the sirens in his head went from a roar to a distant school bell.  The warning was still there, but not nearly as urgent or dangerous.  

“Bits?” Eric turned back to the doorway and came face to face with Jack, jaw tight and eyes pinched.  Everyone in the kitchen froze for a few seconds before Holster dumped an entire plate of muffins into his backpack and bellowed, “He can’t catch us all!  Scatter!”. 

Even Shitty ran to the counter and grabbed one of the mock apple pies and a warm 6 pack of beer that hadn’t made it’s way to the fridge and ran for the door, squeezing past with only a “Good to see you Bits!  Your visit could not have been better timed.”

Jack stood awkwardly, large shoulders taking up the doorway as he shuffled his feet a little, toes pointed inward.  And lord, when he looked up at Bits with those giant Basset Hound eyes, all Bits could do was melt, “I know a man who looks like he could use a slice of pie, if any is left.  Your teammates are locusts.” 

Jack fiddled with the strap of his gear bag for a moment, then dropped it to the floor before stepping fully into the kitchen and into Eric’s personal space bubble.  

“Hi.”

“Hi, yourself.” And God, that felt good.  Maybe if Eric had of simply called Jack, a little text hello, he wouldn’t have burned through enough butter to paint the Haus.  

“I’m really happy to see you, but why are you here?  Aren’t you supposed to be at practice.”

And that warm little bubble of happiness in Eric’s chest burst and left him itching to make something.  Maybe he could run to the Stop and Shop and grab a bit more flour.

“Oh that.  Coach gave me the afternoon off to heal up and think about some stuff.  I guess I just thought your kitchen would be an ideal place to think.”

He knew that his smile didn’t reach his eyes, but maybe Jack would buy it and just sling an arm around him.  A hug would be even better.  

Jack tilted his head and took all of Eric in, from top to toes before just pulling him into full contact hug.  

“I’ve had a shit day too.  I took it out on the guys at practice.”

Eric giggled into the solid plane of Jack’s chest in both glee and commiseration.  “Is that why they ran out of here like they would catch fire?”

Jack grunted a noncommittal sound.  And Eric pulled away to run over to the counter and grab an apple pie and two forks.  He passed one to Jack.  “I hope this isn’t presumptuous, but do you want to talk about it?  In your room?”

Jack bobbed his head yes and went to the fridge and grabbed a few protein shakes, a jug of cold water before heading back towards the door, holding his arm aloft, “After you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't promise, but I really REALLY want to wrap this up this month. Fingers crossed for a quiet and boring last few days of November.


	16. Tomatoes and Marigolds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My grandmother, Moo Maw, she is an avid gardener. Most of her life advice is food related. But she used to say that you couldn’t just go growing tomatoes next any old plant. Some plants just aren’t compatible, no matter how much you want them to grow in the same soil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not exactly thrilled with how this chapter came out, but I refuse to let that hold me back. So, please accept this chapter of lengthy talking.

As Eric marched up the steps, walked down the short hall, smiled at the framed hole in Shitty’s door with a small placard placed next to it accrediting Eric ‘8-Bit’ Bittle, there was a moment, a microsecond really, when Eric realized that he was walking upstairs to sit in a boy’s room. Not just any boy, but a boy he had certain feelings for and (in a voice that sounded too much like his scandalized mother) maybe he should redirect back downstairs? Where he could sit on the couch and keep both feet on the ground. But his feet had other plans and if anything, sped up and bounced at bit at Jack’s door. 

Jack walked up and pulled out an antique brass key that should have opened some Byronic hero’s private quarters and not a hockey player’s frat house room, but maybe that was the exact same thing? Like everything Eric had learned from meeting the SMH team, these boys more layers than a schichttorte (God bless the Great British Bake Off!) Resting his hand, his fingertips really, on the small of Eric’s back, he leaned over and unlocked the door and Eric bolted inside, shocked with the electricity of touch. HIs nerves started in his stomach and he began to babble in an effort to calm them. 

“It’s silly, but I’m always surprised by how affectionate Shitty is.”

“Is he making you uncomfortable?” 

“No! Absolutely not. I guess I’m not used to people who are so demonstrative. He always makes me feel like I made some amazing play on the field, not just used up all of your kitchen ingredients.”

Jack transferred his drinks to the desk and tossed his bag off to the side of the room. He then opened up his window and looked out. 

“That’s just Shitty for you. When I first met him, he lived next door to me in the dorms. He showed up one day and told me he needed a hug after getting a D on a quiz. He then went on this full rant about how homophobia and the patriarchy has done a number on expressions of male friendships and how that in turn leads to lower quality of life, over burdening women with managing men’s emotional well-being, toxic masculinity.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Yeah, but…” Jack looked over his shoulder back at Eric, “I’m glad he taught me how to ask for a hug when I need one.”  
Jack motioned with his head towards the window, “Do you maybe want to hang out on the Reading Room? It’s quiet - we could talk out there? You can tell me what made you decide to try and feed 30 hockey players.”

The roof didn’t look like it could hold up another shingle, but he still climbed out first. Jack passed out the pie, water, and protein shakes before pulling himself out with the comforter from his bed. 

Momentarily convinced he wasn’t going to slide off, Eric sat down and scooted closer to Jack and the heat he was throwing off in the cool air. They passed a moment digging into the middle of the pie with forks and then finally laughing into the night. 

“Why does this make me feel better.”

Eric sighed down at his plate, “I think it’s because it’s kinda improper, right? But it’s intimate. We are enjoying a piece of pie, warm from the pan with no expectation to share some. It’s a special type of treat, something that’s only for you.”

“Something that’s only for me.” Jack repeated, as he weighed the words on his fork.

“Well, I feel like it’s only polite for you to go first, Mr. Zimmermann. What caused your bad day?”

Jack inhaled, big and hard and blew out the air with a long whoosh. “An old friend called. He wants me to meet his general manager, well actually, he wants me to sign with his team, and move to Las Vegas.”

“That’s not a bad thing? Is it? I mean, you are meeting with teams? Wouldn’t it be nice to be that far away with a friend?”“We weren’t good friends. I mean, we were close friends, but we weren’t good for each other. We brought out the worse in each other when stress was on and it was always on.”

“I get that. My grandmother, Moo Maw, she is an avid gardener. Most of her life advice is food related. But she used to say that you couldn’t just go growing tomatoes next any old plant. Some plants just aren’t compatible, no matter how much you want them to grow in the same soil.”

Jack’s lips twitched for a moment. “No offense, but that sounded like it should be on a hand painted sign somewhere.”

“None taken.” And Eric just left space at the end. Enough for Jack to continue.

“I don’t want to go to Vegas. Not while I have a choice, not if I get to pick. The city’s too much and Kenny…well, I don’t know.”

The silence filled the crisp night air. Students walked to and fro below them, completely unaware of the two of them sitting in silence, eating the last of the pie. 

“The offensive director came to talk to me today.” Eric began, dragging a sliced apple around in the pie tin. “He wants me to play on Saturday.”

“I thought that the trainers and head coach wanted you to sit out.”

Eric tossed the fork into the tin and placed it at his feet and laid his head on his knees. It was easier to say everything if he pretended that the real living breathing Jack wasn’t there. But he needed to talk, and his father wouldn’t understand, and the words were going to burst out of his anyway. 

“I wonder if I actually want to play football. It was something my dad did, and my uncles, and my grandfather. It’s a tradition. And I was so proud that I could play - not just tossing the ball around in the yard, but I could hold my own on every team I was on. If I ran fast, it didn’t matter that I was small and liked to bake. If I could catch, then it didn’t matter as much that I liked my dance classes and skating. 

“But somewhere along the way, It became if I just play well enough, then I could blend in. I never really did though. And I hate getting tackled. I still hate how the only thing that pushes me down the field is my nerves half the time. And when coach told me today that he didn’t expect a little bump like that to take me out the game, that why did I come to Samwell’s Football Team if I didn't want to play football, it hit me all at once. Maybe I don’t want to play football. Especially if I have to perform, you know? If I have to continually temper part of me and then put myself on the line again and again just to prove I belong. Maybe I don’t belong here.” Eric took a sniffed, wet and quick. “My team doesn’t even know I bake besides Mason.” 

The real living breathing Jack’s hand gently touched the back of Eric’s neck and swooped down to mid back and up again and again in a firm caress. Eric took comfort in the rhythm of the soothing contact.

“I gave up hockey for a full year after, you know. And I had that same thought of do I even want to play hockey? I knew I was good at it, but I really struggled to separate if I liked it myself or if it was because I was praised and encouraged to play. Was I just doing it because my dad was good at it?”

Eric looked up and out onto the street below. “My dad was a great player. If he hadn’t of wrenched his arm in college, he could have gone farther, I’m sure. And he was so excited when I was interested in ball, and he was so proud when I ran my first touchdown. But his approach to everything is to ‘you show ‘em, junior!’ and ‘prove your worth, son!’ I’m exhausted. This is not the crisis I need to have in the middle of my season.”

“It’s a valid question though. After I took a break, I realized that I did love hockey, you know. I loved teaching kids how to skate, I loved the sound of a slap shot, and watching the puck skim across the ice. But if I hadn’t had that break, I don’t think it would have ever been clear for me. I would have always mixed what I want with everything I thought my dad wanted and what the hockey world wanted from me.”

“I’m not sure if I have time for a break.”

“No, but if you don’t feel like you are ready on Saturday, mentally or physically, then you don’t have to play. It’s not his call. I know how the pressure is unrelenting. But do this for yourself, yeah? Give yourself a break on Saturday.” 

Eric finally looked back over his shoulder at Jack. “You are very sweet, you know that right?” 

“Ha, no. I’m not.” And this boy had the nerve to flutter his eye lashes and blush. 

“Yea, you are a sweetpea. Thank you for your help.”

Jack bumped Eric with his forehead. “I’m not sure if I was, but you helped me a lot, just now.”

“Maybe we’re tomatoes and marigolds - you know, complimentary plants?”

“I thought I was a sweetpea?”

Eric laughed and leaned over close, “Jack Zimmermann, shut up and kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Slow burns are the worse!  
> Also me: 25,000 words and no kiss yet.


End file.
